A Practical Guide to Sorcery by AzaleaEllis

Category: Original

Genre: Adventure, Anti-Hero Lead, Drama, Fantasy, Female Lead, Gender Bender, High Fantasy, Low Fantasy, Magic, Progression, Psychological, School Life, Secret Identity, Strong Lead, Supernatural, Urban Fantasy

Status: In-Progress

Published: 2020-07-10

Updated: 2021-12-30

Packaged: 2021-12-30 22:00:44

Warnings: Gore

Chapters: 83

Words: 296,850

Publisher: www.royalroad.com

Summary:

In a world where magic is a science, Siobhan Naught is a genius.

But even geniuses need schooling.

Siobhan has just been banned from the country's only magical university.

As the unwitting accomplice to the theft of a priceless magical artifact, she has suddenly become a wanted criminal. There are fates worse than death, and if caught, she will face them. Unwilling to give up on her dream of becoming the world's most powerful sorcerer, she resolves to do whatever it takes to change her fate.

Even if it means magically disguising herself as a boy and indebting herself to a gang of criminals to pay for University tuition.

With the coppers after her, the pressure of trying to keep her spot in the devilishly competitive magic classes, and the gang calling in favors to repay her debts, Siobhan will need every drop of magic she can channel.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Escape via Unexpected Transmutation

Chapter 2 - Opportunity Knocks for a Sorcerer

Chapter 3 - A Business Contract

Chapter 4 - Puzzles & Self-Creation

Chapter 5 - Bad First Impressions

Chapter 6 - The Danger of too Little Information

Chapter 7 - Filial Anxiety

Chapter 8 - Lino-Wharton Messenger

Chapter 9 - Crossing the Threshold of Disillusionment

Chapter 10 - Playing Detective

Chapter 11 - Written Examination

Chapter 12 - Oral Examination

Chapter 13 - Objects in Mirror

Chapter 14 - Simple Wards & Foreign Ideas

Chapter 15 - Dysphoria

Chapter 16 - Harmless Blood Magic

Chapter 17 - A Toast to Forceful Personalities

Chapter 18 - Orientation

Chapter 19 - Introduction to Modern Magics

Chapter 20 - Practical Will-based Casting

Chapter 21 - No Greatness Without Adversity

Chapter 22 - Sympathy & Defense

Chapter 23 - A Busy Schedule

Chapter 24 - The Menagerie

Chapter 25 - Alchemy

Chapter 26 - Bargains Big and Small

Chapter 27 - Study Group

Chapter 28 - Admit You Don't Understand

Chapter 29 - Kindred Spirits

Chapter 30 - (A Rather Poor) Rescue

A Conjuring of Ravens Pre-Order

Chapter 31 - Arriving to Class Naked

Chapter 32 - Sheltered from the Storm

Chapter 33 - Temporary Inversion of Income vs. Expense

Chapter 34 - Back Door Deals

Chapter 35 - Planar Divination-Diverting Ward

Chapter 36 - Conception of the Raven Queen

Chapter 37 - An Abridged Farewell

Chapter 38 - Competing for Points [Book 2 Start]

Chapter 39 - Paper Spells

Chapter 40 - Sleep Research

Chapter 41 - Friendships Forged by Accident

Chapter 42 - The Mysteries of Sleep

Chapter 43 - Alliance with the Nightmare Pack

Chapter 44 - Chastisement

Chapter 45 - Sirens

Chapter 46 - The Intersection of Transmutation and Transmogrification

Chapter 47 - Useless Clutter

Chapter 48 - Unresolved Curiosity

Chapter 49 - Reverse Scrying

Chapter 50 - Eagle Tower

Chapter 51 - Saved by the Enemy

Chapter 52 - Faulty Deductions

Chapter 53 - Through a Glass Darkly

Chapter 54 - Commission to Investigate

Chapter 55 - A Pact of Stars

Chapter 56 - Forming a Team

Chapter 57 - Noticing Confusion

Chapter 58 - The Constitution of Cockroaches

Chapter 59 - A Simple Solution

Chapter 60 - Request a Boon

Chapter 61 - To Slumber but not Rest

Chapter 62 - Cold Sweat

Chapter 63 - Theoretical Exercises

Chapter 64 - Snowfall & Spilled Secrets

Chapter 65 - A Convenient Concoction

Chapter 66 - An Interview

Chapter 67 - Secret Thaumaturge Meeting

Chapter 68 - Attack Strategy

Chapter 69 - Drills

Chapter 70 - Old Wives' Tales

Chapter 71 - The Penultimate Piece

Chapter 72 - First Fallen

Chapter 73 - Mid-Terms & Tournament

Chapter 74 - The Glasshopper

Chapter 75 - These Violent Delights

Chapter 76 - Healing

Chapter 77 - Have Violent Ends

Chapter 78 - A Sacrifice of Light

Chapter 79 - Connections

Chapter 80 - Nerves Wracked

Chapter 81 - The Siverling Line

Chapter 82 - Things Go Wrong

Chapter 1 - Escape via Unexpected Transmutation

A note from AzaleaEllis


The first two books in this series are now available for purchase everywhere ebooks are sold. Get a copy of your own and help support this story!

Book 1: A Conjuring of Ravens

A Conjuring of Ravens Audiobook

Book 2: A Binding of Blood

Prologue

It was a much smaller group that finally reached the cave, hidden deep within the Black Wastes. The archaeologist had known it would be dangerous. They all had. Losing half the members of the expedition before even reaching their destination was a significant setback, but the cost would be well worth it, for what they hoped to find.

The Thaumaturgic University of Lenore had organized the expedition, and spared no expense on supplies or recruitment. Thirty people had set out, almost all of them thaumaturges. Sorcerers, mostly, but also witches with carefully chosen familiars, powerful diviners to keep them from getting lost, and a handful of cross-species half-breeds with useful skills. They even had a Grandmaster-level healer.

The expedition had been fully outfitted with spell-charged battle artifacts and enchanted armor, and a full set of potions and components for spellcasting. Each member had been given a dozen high-potency beast cores to power their spells.

It had cost a fortune. The archaeologist had thought the University was going overboard. Thirty powerful thaumaturges with all the resources they could ask for would be enough to take out a nest of dragons. Maybe even a sky-kraken.

But he had underestimated the dangers of the Black Wastes.

Magical beasts had taken a handful. They had expected beasts, of course, but the Black Wastes was home to monstrosities even the archaeologist had never heard of. Mutations, most likely.

More of their number had died to the environment. From poison-gas swamps, to quicksand deserts, to craggy, crumbling peaks, their surroundings shifted with unnatural abruptness and complete randomness. Even the plant life tried to kill them. What little managed to grow was warped and deadly to consume.

But it was the lingering effect of ancient, corrupted magic that was most deadly. They all wore protective artifacts, they carried ward stones to anchor the spell drawn around their huddled campsite each night, and they had even brought along a shaman to help appease whatever spirits might reach through the veil to the mortal world. It wasn't enough.

The paranoia had started first, and then the nightmares, and finally, the hallucinations.

One of their two remaining diviners had killed himself when a spell went wrong.

Two men on watch had wandered off sometime in the night, leaving the camp unguarded, not even leaving any tracks behind.

The archaeologist knew the only remaining half-breed had been having thoughts of murdering him in his sleep. He could read it in her too-big eyes.

And so, when the last diviner pointed out the entrance to the cave, protected and concealed by a failing ward, he felt a pathetic, shivering relief.

There had been an earthquake, or some other natural disaster, that damaged the foundational ward-stones of this ancient site. It was exactly this that had allowed the University to divine the cave's general location, a boon without which the expedition would have been unsuccessful, like the many others that had failed over the previous hundreds of years.

Myrddin’s hermitage was a thing of legend and fantasy, a kind of holy grail to an archaeologist like himself. The legendary sorcerer had retreated here in his later years, disappearing from civilization for decades at a time to focus on his work, but until now, its location had been nothing more than rumor and pieced-together speculation.

The damaged wards came down easily, and the archaeologist and two others entered the cave, leaving the rest of the expedition to guard the entrance. They were the first to enter the hermitage since Myrddin himself. When they returned to the University, every one of them would be famous beyond their wildest dreams.

With effort, they opened the glyph-carved, iron doorway, and the archaeologist held his breath as he shone light into the expansive, dark room within. It had been carved out of the stone of the mountain itself. He stepped in slowly, his footsteps stirring up long-settled dust. The movement revealed the Circle of a spell array carved into the floor. Along one wall were stone shelves filled with books, some so ancient they seemed as if they would collapse into dust with a touch. Another wall displayed spell components, most decomposed to the point of uselessness.

But his attention was on the large desk in the middle of the room. Almost tiptoeing for fear of disturbing the relics all around him, the archaeologist moved toward it.

Atop it was a book. It lay open, with the handwriting stopping halfway down the page, abruptly, as if it had been interrupted. It was surrounded by loose sheets of parchment that held the faint remnants of drawings and diagrams, faded to the point of illegibility. Two bowls sat across from the book, one filled with beast cores of all different colors and sizes, enough potential energy for even the most powerful spells, and one with what seemed to be pure celerium Conduits, each half the size of his fist.

He leaned closer to the desk, ignoring the two bowls despite the wealth they contained, and peered at the ink scribbled across the book’s open page.

The writing was profoundly incomprehensible—encrypted with a spell—but still perfectly preserved. Of course Myrddin would have placed preservative spells on his research grimoire!

Wild glee rose up in the archaeologist, so heady it almost made him dizzy. He laughed aloud, the sound echoing off the stone walls with a hint of hysteria.

The book, and the research within, would be the answer to their country’s—maybe even their world’s—problems. All they needed to do was get it back to the University in Gilbratha and decrypt it.

Chapter 1

Siobhan

Month 9, Day 28, Monday 1:00 a.m.

For once, Siobhan felt grateful that the average person was such an imbecile. The coppers were no exception, even in a big city like Gilbratha. Shivering in the dark, she took another peek out of the alley behind the inn, tugging down the hood of her ratty, stolen cloak. She had to be sure the ambush they’d set couldn’t snap shut around her. The coppers were positioned at both street corners, and she guessed they were waiting in the inn’s common room, and probably outside her door as well.

The coppers had the right idea, staking out the room her father had rented for them.

Siobhan would have preferred not to return to the inn, but she had no choice. Her belongings, including her grimoire, were there. She couldn’t afford to lose what little she had. Lucky for her, the coppers had apparently failed to consider the fact that she wasn’t a blazing idiot. She wouldn’t simply walk, oblivious, through the front door.

As far as Siobhan knew, the room was still undisturbed, probably because they'd noticed the rudimentary alarm ward she’d set on the doorframe. Tripping it would have alerted her to the manhunt’s progress and kept her from walking into their trap.

Either that or they’d subverted the ward and were waiting for her in the unlit room, the more obvious guards only serving as decoys, encouraging her to discard her vigilance.

Siobhan grimaced, looking up at the dark, many-paned window on the second floor. She would just have to be careful. ‘Climbing a building can’t be so hard, can it? It’s not as if I have a choice, after all.’ With a nervous breath and a very careful twisting of her thoughts away from the possibility of falling, she crossed the alley. Her hands reached for the wooden slats, and she began to climb, fitting fingers and the tips of her boots wherever she could.

The wood was faintly damp, and in more than a few places it had bred a slimy film. When she reached the second floor, her right hand slipped, but she managed not to cry out, despite breaking most of the nails on her left hand as she dug her fingers even harder into the crevasse. ‘And it took so much effort to grow those stupid nails,’ she thought wryly. ‘I guess I really never will fit into high society.’ She shuffled sideways till she reached the window of the room she’d left that morning, a time that now seemed a lifetime away, full of innocence and hope.

Bracing the toes of her boots between the wooden siding panels, she peeked in, moving her head slowly to avoid drawing notice. Her fingers trembled on the edge of the sill with the pressure she placed on them, and she was excruciatingly conscious of how close she was to falling backward. She saw no one within, no inky shadows that looked more suspicious than any other.

Siobhan had placed the alarm ward over the window as well, but that didn’t matter, unless they were very much cleverer than she was giving them credit for. If they were that clever, she would simply have to run, again.

No, the bigger problem was her lack of formal training or experience with breaking and entering. The latch was locked from the inside. She was sure there were spells that could reach through a barrier and undo a simple latch-lock. However, she didn’t know any of them.

That would have posed a problem, if not for the versatile nature of sorcery.

‘I can’t let something this trivial stop me,’ she thought, glaring at the wood-bordered glass panes. ‘I need my grimoire.’ She made sure her feet were stable, then released one hand’s death grip on the windowsill. Her cold, clumsy fingers fumbled in one of the pockets of the ratty jacket she wore under the even more ratty cloak. She pulled out a soft wax crayon and carefully drew a small Circle on the glass, completely enclosing one of the hand-sized panes. That was where the magic would take effect.

There could be no gaps in the Circle. Mistakes could be deadly.

Though she shook with the effort, Siobhan slowly drew a larger Circle around the first, dragging the crayon over the wooden divisions between the panes with careful precision. That was where she would write the Word, the instructions that would help guide the magic to the right purpose.

She drew a third, small Circle on the windowsill itself, then connected it to the outer Circle on the glass with a line. That was a component Circle, where she would place the Sacrifice, which would be consumed as she cast the spell. She wrote the glyph for “fire” within it, though she would sacrifice no actual fire. It was close enough to the idea of heat to work. More fumbles into her many pockets turned up a vial of honey, of which she tipped a sluggish drop into the component Circle on the windowsill. Next, a small, rolled-up ball of similar stickiness—spiderweb. She reached for a wad of cotton, but found she had none.

Biting back a curse, she reached again for the wax crayon and wrote the glyph for “silence” in the space between the two overlapping Circles on the glass. She didn’t know the glyph for “stillness,” but she did know “slow,” so that’s what she wrote. She squeezed in what further detailed instructions would fit, but it wasn’t much. Finally, Siobhan drew a pentagon within the inside Circle.

She made the mistake of looking at the ground below and had to swallow down her lurching stomach and steady her trembling legs. Magic required concentration. She couldn’t allow her circumstances to dull her wits if she wanted to succeed. ‘Grandfather didn’t teach me to be the type of sorcerer who has performance problems,’ she thought, sneering at her faint reflection in the glass. ‘He also didn’t teach me to make up spells out of desperation…’ This thought popped into her head unbidden, and she pushed it away. Untested spells were always dangerous. It was always safer to copy a spell you already knew to work, which, ideally, had been proven over generations of regular use, than to try something entirely new. If the magic rebelled and she lost control, she might die.

But she was desperate. ‘It’s a simple enough spell. Surely at least some sorcerers have done something similar before. And even if the magic turns wild, it only means I must control it all the more tenaciously.’

She glared at the spell array she’d drawn and let her Will spill out into the world, activating the spell. The magic took hold of the windowpane, and she winced. The array was proving its inefficiency by letting off a glow. She focused harder, and the light dimmed, though not enough to be truly stealthy. Siobhan could only hope that no one was watching, because the glowing spell array would be obvious against the darkness.

After hurriedly wrapping her free hand in a fistful of cloak, she gave a sharp jab toward the glass. On the bright side, there was no loud shattering of glass. On the not-so-bright side, that wasn’t because her spell had successfully muffled the sound, but because the force of her blow had been too weak to break the window.

Siobhan drew back her fist and punched harder. This time, the windowpane broke. The sound of shattering glass was muffled, and the shards slowly floated down toward the grimy floor inside, like feathers.

‘Feathers, that would’ve been a good component. A couple might have eased the Will-drain. And maybe a pentagram would have been better than a pentagon. That spell was mostly transmogrification,’ she thought, releasing the mental effort that kept the spell going. Where the component Circle had been, both the honey and the blob of spiderweb were gone. The whole spherical area within had frozen so solid she knew it would burn her skin and break away from the wall if touched. The air became visible as it passed over the spot, little particles of water turning to ice in an instant.

She’d used up all the heat. Such inefficient spellwork was embarrassing, and a little frightening, because if the spell had run out of fuel she could be dead. Still, it was the best she could do in that moment, and it had worked.

Siobhan reached through the newly created opening, and with a simple flick of her finger, opened the latch. It creaked. She froze, waiting for a response. None came, except for a sudden chill from the pebble tucked into the lip of her boot as her ward alerted her of the intrusion. Gingerly, she pulled open the window, leaning back in a way that made her sick to her stomach to allow it to swing outward. She climbed into the room, careful not to set her booted foot down on the shards of glass below.

An effort of memory brought to her mind’s eye the state of the room as she and her father had left it, and a look around confirmed that nothing seemed to have changed. She hurried to gather her things, and only remembered at the last moment that one floorboard creaked when stepped on, just in time to avoid it.

She grabbed her small pack, which contained her grimoire, a little box of spell components, and her spare Conduit, as well as her extra, more worn set of clothes—the ones she hadn’t wanted to wear to the University—and hairbrush, which was free of any hair of course, as Grandfather had taught her.

She gathered up her father’s things next. What was light enough to carry, anyway. Finally, she did a quick sweep of the inn’s lumpy straw beds for stray hairs or other pieces of themselves they may have left behind, a well-practiced spell burning anything relevant to smokeless ash.

As she was finishing, the telltale footsteps of a copper sounded from the stairs below, the copper hobnails in the soles of their boots clicking against the wood.

Siobhan made sure her packs were tightened securely to her body and returned to the window. A piece of glass, invisible in the shadows, cracked under her boot. She froze.

Outside the door, someone’s weight shifted, boots shuffling over the wooden floor.

She scrambled to crawl back through the window, made awkward by her load. To her relief, the door didn’t burst open, as she would surely have been caught halfway through maneuvering back outside.

“Investigator,” two men greeted, the nervousness of those who knew they had not been quite as vigilant in their task as might be desired apparent in their voices.

“Anything to report?” a third man’s voice replied perfunctorily, the scratch of a sore throat roughening the sound.

“No, Investigator,” came the jointly spoken reply.

The man let out a wet cough. “We’ve got the wardbreaker here. Occupants are listed as one Ennis Naught and his daughter, with no proof of a license for thaumaturgy, so we’re good to ward-break.” After a pause, he added in a low grumble, “Six hours later.”

One of the guards let out a nervous laugh as Siobhan leaned back and closed the window. She reached through the opening she’d created and re-latched the lock, then stared at the broken windowpane in dawning horror.

“Planes-damned Crown bureaucracy,” the guard said with an awkward laugh. “Always making our jobs harder, am I right?”

The investigator didn’t reply, but there was more nervous shuffling, and then another set of footsteps and the dry sound of chalk scraping against the other side of the door.

Siobhan held back a stream of invective as she shuffled along the wall, trying not to let the packs drag her over backward. ‘I hope you find your hide burned by a fire demon from one of the greater hells, Father,’ she thought. ‘How dare you put me in this position, you criminally irresponsible, thieving, sorry excuse for a caretaker. If Grandfather were still here, I would never be reduced to climbing down the side of some flea-ridden inn to escape from the coppers. Grandfather would never have used me as a decoy to evade capture for his own feckless crimes!’

Distracted by her own mental tirade, one foot placed slightly wrong was all it took for the packs on her back and the immutable force of gravity to undermine her hold on the wall. Siobhan fell backward.

She suppressed a scream, experiencing a moment of terror before landing on the mucky cobblestone of the alley below. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs with an audible “oomph!”

The packs, filled mostly with cloth, had cushioned her fall. She arched her back and pulled at the air, her hands scrabbling at nothing as her mouth gaped like a fish.‘Oh, I’ve killed myself,’ she wailed mentally.‘What an ignominious end, dashed upon the ground…’ The tiniest bit of breath filtered into her lungs, and that led the way for more. Once she was sure that her back hadn’t snapped like an incense stick from the fall, she sat up and stumbled to her feet, only to freeze as a light shone from the window above.

They must have broken the ward on the door, since it hadn’t alerted her to the intrusion.

A quick mental argument about whether it was more stealthy to press herself against the side of the building to be more difficult to spot, or to remain frozen to avoid drawing eyeballs to suspicious movement in the darkness, yielded no good answer. She was left no time to think of a better option, because one of the people above hurried directly to the window and looked out.

When they shone a beam of light out into the alley where she stood, all thoughts of stealth vanished and Siobhan bolted.

Shouts followed her, and as she skidded around the corner into the street, the copper at the end of the block saw her and gave chase.

Instead of cursing, Siobhan saved her breath for escaping.

“Halt!” the copper yelled.

She ignored him, darting around the nearest corner and sprinting blindly down the alley. This part of the city had only the rare crystal streetlamp illuminating the darkness, which worked both for and against her.

The copper’s clacking footsteps echoed loudly behind her, and were soon joined by others as his associates gave chase.

She scrambled around another corner, her boots slipping in something rancid and slimy as she rushed deeper into the maze of poorly planned and haphazardly constructed buildings. Behind her, red light flashed as a magical projectile impacted against the wall she’d just passed. A stunning spell.

‘At least they aren’t trying to kill me,’ she thought, somewhat hysterically.

Her heart in her throat, Siobhan pumped her arms and legs even faster. She had no idea where she was going. If she’d had time, she would have scouted the surrounding area before going back for her things, but she had barely managed to find the inn again after escaping from the University. She’d been right not to wait any longer, or the coppers would have entered the room before she did, and what few resources she had just recovered would have been lost. She was tiring quickly. She’d never been particularly athletic, and sprinting at top speed for any length of time while carrying a third of her weight in luggage was shockingly difficult.

She came to a “T” shaped junction. Another frantic turn around the corner sent her stumbling over detritus hidden by the dark. She went sprawling forward, scraping her palms against the stone and slamming her chest into the ground, which only made her much-abused lungs ache even more.

Siobhan scrambled back to her feet and found herself facing the sudden end of a short alley. There was nowhere for her to run. She spun around, hoping for the alley to extend in the other direction, but found that to be a dead-end as well. Her only way out, the alley she’d just come down, led straight back to the chasing coppers.

Her breath came fast and her head whipped around as she searched for something, anything that would allow her to escape. ‘Do I have a spell that could help me here?’ She could think of nothing. From the sound of the shouts and clacking footsteps, she didn’t have the time to draw out a Circle and the Word to guide a spell even if she knew one that might help.

When a window at the other tail of the alley screeched open and a man’s head popped out, already looking at her, her heart jumped as if it meant to crawl up through her throat and escape her body.

Instead of calling out that he’d caught her or pointing a battle wand at her, the dark-haired man waved her over. “Hurry,” he called in a low voice.

Siobhan hesitated less than a second, since a suspicious stranger on the poor side of the city, who was at least nominally willing to help her, was sadly the best option currently available. She dashed across the alley, cringing as she briefly exposed herself to the approaching coppers.

Another blast of red light shot out toward her from the tip of a battle wand, but the aim was off. The spell splashed ineffectually against the wall once again, leaving a subtle scorch mark and a puff of steam behind. That one had been more powerful than the last.

She grabbed the dark-haired man’s outstretched hand. With their combined effort, she scrambled up and through the window, her packs scraping against the frame and snagging for a single, panicked instant before releasing. Siobhan tumbled to the floor, wild-eyed, and the man immediately closed the window and moved further into the building. While she struggled to regain her bearings, he was picking up a small oil lantern from the floor, the flame within illuminating the darkness with a dull orange flicker.

“Follow me,” he said, the words fully enunciated and carrying the kind of confidence that told her he hadn’t even considered that she might do otherwise.

She complied, noting the upright way he moved and the expensive fabric and cut of his suit. This man wasn’t one of the poor locals, but unless he was leading her into an elaborate trap, he also wasn’t a copper. She looked for signs of sorcery—the many pockets filled with component materials, or a jewel clear enough to be a Conduit. Despite the fashionable cut of his clothes, his pockets didn’t seem to hold anything, and he wore no jewelry. That alone didn’t mean he wasn’t a thaumaturge of some sort, but he was unlikely to be a sorcerer, at least.

He led her out a side door into another narrow alley, then into a building on the other side. Once the door was shut behind them, he peeked out a small opening in a boarded-up window, and after a few seconds, sighed in relief. “We should be safe to wait them out here.” He hung the lantern on a nail sticking out of a nearby support beam, then turned to face Siobhan. He was clean-shaven, wavy hair falling over his forehead in a way that made him look slightly boyish, but which was offset by an angular jaw. His lips curled up at the sides, giving him an ever-so-slightly amused expression as he stared back at her.

She backed up to a safe distance from him.

He let out a soft snort, as if offended. “I assure you, I mean you no harm.”

“Forgive me if your words do not reassure me in the slightest,” she said, still more than a little breathless.

He spread his hands, holding them up in an innocent pose. “I have helped you evade law enforcement at my own risk. What more can I do to reassure you?” Despite his words, something about the amusement in his low voice communicated clearly that he was not a danger to her only because he chose not to be.

Siobhan was very conscious of the leather book pressed against the skin of her back and the amulet hanging down from one of the cords around her neck, both disguised by her clothing. ‘Maybe he does have a Conduit, and it’s simply hidden.’

She glared at him, chin raised high. “Perhaps you can explain how you found yourself so conveniently placed to come to my rescue.” Siobhan was tall for a woman, but very aware that without magic she stood little chance of defeating most opponents. Unfortunately, her Will was almost exhausted, and confined within such a small space, without even a battle artifact, she wouldn’t have enough time to cast any serious magic before it was too late. She slipped the packs’ straps off her shoulders in case she needed to move nimbly. They would just be extra handholds for someone to grab her with.

He stared at her assessingly. “I am a philanthropist.”

Siobhan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a criminal,” she said, her tone daring him to deny it.

He slipped his hands into his pockets and grinned. “Then we are alike, no?”

She looked him up and down, mentally calculating the cost of his outfit, which was probably worth as much as the Conduit in her pocket. His stance was arrogant and assured, like her own, but hers was the result of conscious training and self-discipline, while his was natural, a product of inborn arrogance and a lifetime of privilege. She didn’t bother to hold back her scorn. “No, I think not.”

Rather than offending him, this sent one side of his mouth curling up in amusement. “So you’re evading law enforcement out of…innocence?”

She had no response to that. ‘I’ve been unwittingly implicated in a life-ruining crime, but I’m innocent, I swear!’didn’t seem likely to convince him, assuming she saw a point to defending herself, which she didn’t. ‘Even if he believed me, it’s too late to change things now.’

The man didn’t let the awkward silence stretch out. “Perhaps you can agree that, for the moment, our interests seem aligned?”

“I know my interests. What are yours?”

His expression turned a little more serious. “You have made quite a name for yourself in a very short time. The city is abuzz with it—” He cut off as the eponymous sound of copper-nailed boots striking against the cobblestones resounded through the alley beside them.

The coppers weren’t running this time.

When she heard them pound on a nearby door and demand entrance, Siobhan thought she might be sick. “Is there another exit?” she hissed, reaching into her jacket to clasp her Conduit, though she knew once they found her, all hope was lost.

He shook his head with slow finality, the last of his nonchalance burned away.

In the alley, they heard the coppers break down the other door when no one answered.

Her other hand reached up to press against her chest, feeling the amulet against her skin. She looked around, but there were no windows except the boarded-up one by the single door.

The man peeked out through the gap in the boarded window again. “We have less than a minute. Is there anything you can do? A spell? Something to hide us, or perhaps a big blast to knock them out of the way and leave them unable to give chase?”

“No, no,” she said, patting the pockets of her jacket, hoping to prove herself wrong. ‘Why did Grandfather never teach me any battle spells?’ she wailed to herself. ‘Is there any magic besides sorcery I can employ?’ Her mind ran through its repertoire of knowledge—everything Grandfather had taught her, the things she had picked up from other thaumaturges while traveling with her father, and the things she had experimented with.

She had some minor healing salves in her pack, and the medallion hanging from her neck would protect her from certain dangers, but none of the magic she knew was particularly offensive, and of the spells that might be useful, she couldn’t cast any of them quickly.

Magic was the answer to almost every problem, but only if you were very, very good at it. Her ignorance and lack of skill damned her.

The coppers were at the door. One slammed their fist against it. “By order of the Crowns, open up!”

The man ruffled his hair till it stood on end, took off his jacket and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, then moved to stand between her and the door, his knees dipping slightly as if to prepare for sudden movement.

‘Does he plan to fight the coppers? What can he hope to do, unarmed against a battle wand?’

The wood shuddered under another pounding fist.

Siobhan’s free hand clutched at the artifact. ‘I think I’m going to pass out.’When the copper’s first concussive spell on the door cracked its wood, her eyes closed in a reflexive flinch. Her mind settled instinctively into the perspective that allowed her to channel her Will, and she reached out for what little power she had access to without a Circle. Her body flushed with a warm tingle. ‘Oh no, I really am going to pass out…’

The second attack broke through the doorjamb, sending the door itself slamming against the wall and splinters of wood flying through the room.

Her attempted rescuer flinched, raising his hands before the threat of the copper’s extended battle wand. His pose showed that he meant no harm, but his knees were still slightly bent, perhaps hoping to take them by surprise.

A uniformed man and woman stood in the shattered doorway, both breathing hard.

Siobhan resolved that she would attack if he did. She might not be particularly useful in a fistfight, but at least she could help even the odds, and maybe keep one of them from calling for reinforcements while the man fought the other one.

The copper’s female partner stepped around him, shining a lamp over both of them. The woman looked around suspiciously, her eyes flicking around the dark corners of the room and then settling down to glare at the two of them.

Squinting against the bright light, Siobhan unclenched her fists, leaving her Conduit in her pocket, and raised her hands into the air. Her eyes flicked down to the battle wand holstered at the female copper’s hip. ‘That artifact likely contains more of those stunning spells. Meant to incapacitate, not kill.’ Perhaps if she lunged for the woman fast enough, she could steal it and use it against her and her partner. ‘The wand can’t be that difficult to operate, surely?’

She plotted out her vector of attack in a blistering fury of concentration. ‘I can do this. I can.’Two steps forward, duck down to avoid the spell from the male copper, spin to reach the woman’s side and simultaneously use her as a partial body shield. Snatch the wand—

“Have you seen anyone come this way? Tall, dark-haired woman. Might have been wearing a hooded cloak. A thaumaturge,” the woman said.

Siobhan blinked. ‘Is this a joke?’ Her hood had fallen down around her shoulders, revealing her face and hair. The woman was looking right at her. Perhaps their description of her appearance was somehow incorrect, maybe of someone older than her, or with some sensationally evil feature, like glowing red eyes. Siobhan carefully didn’t look at the packs on the ground, which were more evidence of her identity.

Her rescuer turned to look at her, and the momentary widening of his eyes when they landed on her, combined with the pinch of pain caused by too-tight boots that had fit fine only seconds before, gave Siobhan the last clue she needed.

“Heard footsteps goin’ into the buildin’ ‘cross the street,” she said, hoping her flinch at the sound of her own voice hadn’t been noticeable. The sound was scratchy and deep, unmistakably male. She cleared her throat, doing her best to imitate the Gilbrathan poor people’s accent. “There was this bright light, a green one. We figured it best to stay out the way.” She wasn’t an actor, but with singularity of purpose, a simple change in mannerisms wasn’t so difficult. She hoped she didn’t seem suspicious, as she hadn’t prepared for this. Still, better to speak less, to give them less chance to notice something amiss.

“You didn’t open the door when we called for entry,” the male copper said, the words an accusation.

“We were…occupied. You broke it down before we had the chance,” her rescuer said, adjusting the waistband of his pants with obvious awkwardness.

‘He’s insinuating I’m a prostitute,’ Siobhan realized, not having to act to adopt an embarrassed expression.

The male copper grimaced with faint distaste, but the female’s eyes narrowed as they roved over Siobhan’s body.

Siobhan’s clothing was covered in pockets, but that style wasn’t reserved only for magic-wielders. Plus, the state of her clothes and the obvious lack of wealth and hygiene didn’t evoke thoughts of a powerful thaumaturge. She had taken off the few trinkets she normally wore, and her Conduit was safely tucked away. She was wearing trousers rather than a skirt, and if they rode a little high on her ankles and loose around the hips, that only suggested she couldn’t afford tailoring.

The woman pointed her wand at Siobhan, and Siobhan tensed again, thinking her deception had been discovered.

However, instead of ordering her to lie down on the ground with her hands behind her head or shooting her with a stunning spell, the woman fiddled with the artifact’s controls for a couple of seconds, then cast an almost invisible wave that washed over Siobhan and prickled against her skin.

The spell irritated her nostrils and eyes, forcing her to blink back tears. ‘Some kind of revealing or nullification spell?’

The copper lowered her wand. “Across the alley, you say?” She nodded to her partner, who hesitantly lowered his own wand, though he kept his glare trained on Siobhan’s rescuer. Despite their obvious mistrust, an out-of-place gentleman committing no obvious crime with a ragamuffin homeless person apparently didn’t compare to the urgency of finding Siobhan. After a final admonition to report any sightings of the “rogue and dangerous thaumaturge,” and to be sure to avoid her for their own safety, the coppers left.

Siobhan waited to be sure the coppers were gone before examining herself. Instead of her skin’s normal ochre, she had grown even paler than her rescuer, and when she tilted her head down to look at her body, light blonde hair fell into her face. The fine strands were cut short, to just below her chin, rather than the normal dark mane that grew past the small of her back. Her boots pinched uncomfortably around larger feet, and she was fairly certain she had grown taller as well.

The man settled the door back in its frame and then looked her transformed body up and down. “You cast an illusion of a man over yourself? It’s not what I expected, but, I admit, it is quite impressive.”

Siobhan shook her head, wide-eyed. “It’s not an illusion,” she said. ‘And I didn’t cast it,’ she continued silently.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Hey guys, Azalea here. Some may know me from the Seeds of Chaos (Sci Fi Adventure LitRPG) series, published on Amazon. "Injecting the blood of an alien god can give you amazing powers... if you live."

A Practical Guide to Sorcery is a Hard Fantasy story (magic is science, and will be treated as such).

Chapters are generally posted every Thursday, and are always posted first on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/ before rolling out to other sites 2-5 weeks later.

If you'd like to buy your own copy of this book and help support this story: https://books2read.com/ConjuringOfRavens

P.S. (This story bears no relation to A Practical Guide to Evil by ErraticErrata. It's just that there are only so many good series titles out there.)

Chapter 2 - Opportunity Knocks for a Sorcerer

Siobhan

Month 9, Day 28, Monday 1:20 a.m.

Siobhan had always prided herself on her intelligence. Taking stock of the facts was easy. She reached down and gripped the flesh between her legs for confirmation. Yes, she had been transformed into a man.

Her rescuer’s eyebrows rose as he watched her grope herself.

She’d noticed no signs of a Circle or the necessary Word to implement such a complex and delicate transmutation. ‘Even if those were disguised, or I simply missed them, who would have been the one to trigger the spell?’ The man in front of her hadn’t done so, or he would have better hidden his surprise when he first saw the change. It hadn’t been the coppers, for obvious reasons, unless there was some grand conspiracy with convoluted goals…No, a much more likely answer was pressed against her now-flat chest, still slightly warm.

The amulet throbbed a little, like a heartbeat calming after a burst of exertion. She reached up and snatched it out from under her clothes, fumbling to untangle its chain from that of the warding medallion she wore, holding it away from her body in horror. The amulet, a dark, matte stone disk clasped in a simple setting and hanging from a leather cord, swung innocently under her fist. She laid it on the floor and took a step back.

The man obviously didn’t know what was going on, but mimicked her step backward with an expression of concern. “What’s wrong?” Perhaps subconsciously, his hands lowered, as if to shield his crotch.

The amulet didn’t react, but removing contact with her body also didn’t reverse whatever magic it had cast on her. “It’s an artifact. It may be dangerous,” she said, once again forcing herself not to cringe at the deepness of her voice. Even the feel of her teeth in her mouth was wrong. She felt an edge of panic pressing in on her strange, pale skin, the kind of fear stemming from complete disorientation that a babe must feel upon being born into the world. ‘My mind is my own,’ she reassured herself, reaching for her Conduit with her free hand simply for the reassuring feel of it. She focused her Will on remaining calm, not ceding control to the situation. If she fell apart now, all might be lost. ‘My magic is my own.’

The man looked from it to her. “May be?” he repeated. “Isn’t it your artifact? How do you not know?”

She didn’t respond, but he wasn’t stupid either.

“Is this what they are looking for? What you stole?” He spoke in a low voice, as if worried someone might overhear.

“I did not steal it!” she snapped at an equally low volume. At his unperturbed look of skepticism, she grimaced. “I was drawn into this unknowingly. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late, and I’d already been made complicit. I was forced to flee.”

He stayed silent for a few moments, then said, “That is indeed unfortunate. However, I was under the impression the University was searching for a magical text of some sort? One they discovered on an archaeological expedition?”

The words reminded her of her distrust toward him. “You seem quite knowledgeable about this,” she said flatly.

He raised his hands again in a placating gesture. “Half the city knows about it by now. And yes, it is why I’m here. Similarly to the coppers, I thought you might return to your place of residence. An acquaintance of mine was able to get the location from the coppers, with just a little bit of bribery. I wasn’t sure that a powerful thaumaturge such as yourself would need help, but was prepared to offer it in the hopes you would find yourself favorably disposed to help me in return. I saw you run, and quite luckily you headed my way. I know a few shortcuts through this part of the city and managed to get ahead of you.”

That she was so predictable was worrying. “You want my help, in exchange for keeping me from being arrested?”

He nodded. “My acquaintances are in need of a powerful thaumaturge. A…sorcerer?” he asked leadingly.

She briefly contemplated pretending to be the powerful sorcerer he seemed to believe she was. Unfortunately, magical expertise was not something you could simply fake, unless you were a magician running a scam against a bunch of country yokels. He would expect her to actually be able to help, and when she couldn’t…‘Would he turn on me, then? No, better to leave the city now. Perhaps one of the magical arcanums of another country will take me in.’

Siobhan shook her head. “I cannot help you.”

She turned her attention back to the artifact on the floor. Gingerly, she picked it up, searching for any indication of controls, like a button or switch she had missed before, or even the symbols and glyphs of a spell’s Word etched into it, perhaps worn away by time. She found nothing.

Her thoughts turned back to the stolen book. Her father had thrust it into her hands and told her to run away. Considering that they were already being chased, it hadn’t occurred to her at the time to question him, but when she finally had a moment to stop and think—after escaping from the coppers for the first time that day—she knew she’d made a mistake. Looking furtively around for observers, she had hoped the book wasn’t too valuable, that perhaps she could simply go back to the University and return it, denouncing the impetuous crimes of her father.

Instead, she’d made her next mistake when she decided to examine the stolen book more closely. It was old and leather-bound, with no title except for a glyph stamped into the front cover. She didn’t know its meaning, and the shape seemed to shift continually. A quick flip through the parchment pages had shown the contents were encrypted.

The leather binding on the inside edge had come slightly loose, subtle enough that she’d almost missed it. Curiosity had always been one of her vices. Unable to restrain herself, she had pulled the leather cover back farther, revealing a spell array burnt into the leather. The Word was complex, well beyond her, but she recognized the main symbol within, a nonagon, which her grandfather used when doing space-bending spells. She had touched the edge with her finger and pushed a spark of Will into the Circle, her free hand clasped around her Conduit.

She knew her Will was too weak to power such a spell, so she wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Perhaps she’d just wanted the feel of being so close to complex magic that would be beyond her skill for many years still. What she hadn’t expected was for the book to forcefully jump out of her hand, and she’d almost screamed and drawn attention to herself.

It had landed on the ground a few feet away, its leather re-bound so tightly that no clue to what lay underneath remained. Beside the book, lying on the hard cobbles, was the amulet she held now. Regretting her actions, she’d tried to peel back the inside of the book’s cover to put the amulet back, but, unable to do so, she’d resorted to hiding both the book and the amulet on her person, berating herself for reckless stupidity.

She realized now that both the leather cover of the book and the amulet that had come out of it were artifacts—objects with pre-cast spells embedded into them for later release. Except she had never heard of an artifact triggered only by Will and the barest spark of energy rather than some external activation method.

‘The text might have a clue about how the amulet works—how I can regain my correct form—if I could just decrypt its protective enchantments to read it. For the moment, however, it might be best to remain a blonde man for the sake of obscurity, and hope whatever spell it has subjected me to doesn’t wear off at an inopportune moment.’ She hung the amulet around her neck again and tucked it under her clothes along with her warding medallion, despite how uncomfortable its touch now made her. It was safest there, and she was safest with it hidden and close. If she lost it, she might never turn back. There was no pain, no strangeness to her thoughts. She guessed that the amulet wasn’t a cursed artifact, unless the curse was very subtle. Strange and frightening, but perhaps—hopefully—not dangerous.

The man stepped forward, but stopped when she retreated again to maintain the distance between them. “Don’t dismiss my offer so quickly. What we require is nothing dangerous,” he said. “My acquaintances mean you no harm, and you can trust that if I meant to betray you, I could have done so already. Perhaps you don’t need help to evade arrest, but surely there’s something else I could offer? At this point, I seem to be the only ally you have.”

Siobhan gritted her teeth. ‘I hate this,’ she thought, ‘even more so because he’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean I can trust him.’ As a wanted criminal, she wasn’t safe anywhere within Gilbratha, and maybe not anywhere within the country of Lenore, if the book was valuable enough. If she left the city without clearing her name, she never would be. Not in her normal body, anyway, if it was even possible to return to it. Her father was somewhere here, evading the coppers just like her. He may have started all this in the first place, but she doubted he had comprehended the full consequences of his actions, and she was very aware that, unlike her, he had no magic to help him.

However, the real motivation for her hesitation was the University itself, and the knowledge of magic it offered. She was greedy for it, and had been for so long. To get so close, only to have all her aspirations ripped from her, caused an almost physical pain in her chest. If the slightest chance remained, she couldn’t give it up. The Naught bloodline was about the lone incentive someone might have to sponsor her. “I want my name cleared and to be granted admission to the University,” she said. “Can you do that?”

The man frowned. “I don’t understand why you would need help to accomplish that, with your capabilities.”

“Can you do it or not? If not, there’s no reason for us to continue talking.”

He blinked, his gaze assessing. “It seems very possible. They’re holding entrance examinations in a couple weeks.”

A tingling rush of hope swept through her, but she did her best to tamp it down. “I can provide minor healing and create some useful salves and potions. I have some background in sorcery, and I can develop rudimentary spells according to necessity. I know a few protective wards, and some minor esoteric magics from a few different disciplines. I am fully literate and good with numbers, and my Will is strong enough to channel at least one hundred seventy-five thaums continuously on the Henrik-Thompson scale. I can recharge artifacts, and…” She flexed her fingers, and her eyes flicked around as she searched her mind. ‘What else can I offer?’

He spoke before she could continue, his eyebrows raised high. “You’re not a fully trained sorcerer? How did…ah.” He reached an uncallused, manicured hand up to his face and rubbed the dark stubble on his jaw.

Siobhan swallowed back the bitter taste of disappointment. It was obvious she wasn’t useful enough for him to agree.

“The person who dragged you into this. The man? He’s the sorcerer?”

Siobhan almost snorted at the absurd statement. Her father, a sorcerer? Her father didn’t have the discipline. “No. He’s not a thaumaturge,” she said. Her disappointment rose back up, hot and rancid. “He merely saw something that piqued his kleptomaniacal urges and decided to take it. Of course, when the hue and cry was raised, he ran. The man is my father,” she spat, “so I ran with him, not yet understanding what he had done. And when he pressed a book to my chest and told me we needed to split up, I was frightened and listened. I should have abandoned him to his own fate, but now it’s too late.”

The man took two deep breaths, his body shifting slightly as if he were restraining himself from pacing. “And the artifact? This…?” He waved his hand at her body.

She shuddered, and the visceral reaction only made the wrongness of her transfigured body more blatant. She resisted the urge to scratch at her newly-pale skin, instead pushing the blonde hair back from her face and shuffling to relieve the pinching in her toes. “It came with the book,” she said, reluctant to divulge the details. “When the coppers pounded at the door, I panicked, and must have activated it somehow.”

His gaze grew piercing. “You have the book still?”

She nodded. “It’s encrypted, so I haven’t read it, but it’s obviously valuable. If you aren’t interested in my services, perhaps I can trade the book for my earlier request? I must attend the University,” she said, trying to sound assertive but unable to keep the edge of desperation from her voice.

He tilted his head to the side, and when he spoke, his words were slow and deliberate. “Why must you?”

“To learn magic,” she said, as if the answer was obvious. “The Thaumaturgic University of Lenore is the premier arcanum in the world, and if not that, then definitely the best in all Lenore. I will learn sorcery. You can take the artifact as well, of course. A full-body human transmutation should be worth the price of whatever bribes you have to make to get the charges on me dropped. It might even be useful in your…line of work.”

He let out a small snort of laughter and put his hands in the pockets of his suit pants, rocking forward and back a few times as he stared at her. “No, I don’t think my acquaintances will buy the book and artifact from you.” He held up a hand to forestall her immediate objection. “You will need the artifact to attend the University, after all.” He paused as if to wait for her to request clarification, but when she only stared at him silently, he cleared his throat and continued. “The book is most likely connected to the artifact, and is no use to me as I cannot decrypt it. Due to its source, I cannot resell it, either. As for clearing your name, you may be slightly underestimating how seriously the University and the Crowns are taking this offense. The young woman who I helped out of the alley, the one with the dark hair, those cheekbones, and those eyes? She will never attend the University.” He looked her up and down. “This blonde young man with the aristocratic features, though? He is a different matter.”

Siobhan narrowed her eyes. “And you can secure a sponsorship for this…young man?”

He shook his head again. “I believe my acquaintances can provide you something to make a sponsorship unnecessary, if your intelligence can earn you a spot deservedly. They can provide you the money to pay your own way.”

She nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging and then ignoring the alarm bells in the back of her mind. Even if this transmutation was not permanent, if it held up for a reasonable amount of time and could be repeated, the man’s idea could work. The realization made her feel as if the world had shifted around her, bringing with it a ray of light, shining through a new opening into the cage that had been confining her. Knowledge, magic, was at her fingertips, almost within reach. Suddenly the artifact didn’t feel so frightening against her chest, and when she spoke, the idea that this voice, this body, might allow her to learn magic gave it a certain charm. “A loan, I assume? What do the attached strings look like, Mr….” She trailed off pointedly. ‘I know there will be strings attached. I only hope the strings aren’t barbed.’

He grinned like a fox, the edges of his lips curling up a little too far in a way that made her think of skinjackers and the cautionary tales mothers recited for children before bed. “You can call me Mr. Dryden. Let me take you to my associates. We can speak more there, out of the dark and the damp.”

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated!

Next chapter on my website https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-3-a-business-contract/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Edit 4/6/21: I'm going through and updating all these chapters with the edited text from the final version of the book. Not much about the story has changed, but the prose has been polished a bit, and some explanations are more clear or fleshed out.

Chapter 3 - A Business Contract

Siobhan

Month 9, Day 28, Monday 1:25 a.m.

“Siobhan Naught,” she said, introducing herself to her rescuer in return. She followed when Dryden led her out of the maze-like alleys to the main streets, where they both were careful to avoid any outward display of apprehension. They stopped at the smaller side door of a sprawling, multi-storied building that had once been made of stone, then added onto with wood. It stood out against its surroundings, both for size and because it had real glass windows, which wasn’t unheard of, even on the edge of the poorer section of Gilbratha, but it was a sign of prosperity that none were broken or patched up with oil paper. Some of the windows still shone with light despite the late hour.

Someone had painted a small symbol in bright green above the door. ‘Antlers,’ she thought.

Dryden rapped in a distinctive pattern, which Siobhan immediately memorized, and after half a minute of silence, the door opened.

A red-headed boy peered out from around the edge of the door, a bright grin growing on his face when he saw who it was. “Mr. Oliver!” he exclaimed, opening the door wider to let them in. “What’re you doing here so late? Didja hear about the powerful witch who attacked the University and then escaped capture by a whole squad of coppers? It was so awesome! She called on a greater demon from the Plane of Darkness.” The boy punctuated his words with exaggerated motions and scary sound effects. “And while the coppers were busy with it, she escaped by turning into a raven!”

Dryden gave Siobhan a wry look, but his tone was light and appeasing when he spoke to the boy. “Is that so, Theo? I heard she was a sorcerer, not a witch. And isn’t the Plane of Darkness something that only exists in fantasy stories?”

Theo frowned. “If she was a sorcerer, how’d she conjure the demon? Oh!” he said, brightening. “Maybe it wasn’t a demon at all! What if it was a spell-created construct? And maybe turning into a raven was actually a sneaky illusion, or a super-powerful body-switching spell that let her teleport to wherever the raven came from!”

Siobhan couldn’t resist a slight chuckle. The boy’s portrayal of her escape was much more dramatic than she remembered the actual encounter being. “Maybe this sorcerer was up against less than a full squad of coppers, and maybe she just did some simple magic that interacted well with her surroundings to prevent them from following her. Like an overpowered breeze that kicked sand into their eyes and made them stumble off the side of a ledge.”

Theo frowned at her, then shook his head emphatically. “No, that’s stup—I mean, that’s silly. You totally left out the greater demon. Why would a powerful sorcerer just blow sand in people’s faces? All the stories I’ve heard about her escape were much more…” He trailed off, waving his hands around as he searched for the right word.

“Dramatic?” Dryden offered.

Theo nodded. “Yes. That. Oh, I hope one day I’ll learn magic and be that powerful. I’m gonna go questing beyond the wards of the city and help battle the beasts of the wild lands. I’ll fight a dragon, one with a beast core as big around as my head!” He held his hands up to show them the size of this future prize.

‘Naive child. Traveling beyond the warded borders of civilization involves much less glory and many more sore muscles, sleepless nights on the ground, and the grating, constant tension of waiting for nature to turn on you.’ Siobhan knew this because living with her father meant they were never welcome in any one town for long, and even if he didn’t get them run out, he was soon ready to chase after the next “opportunity.” At least Lenore wasn’t particularly infested with magical beasts, as long as you avoided the country’s wilder borders.

“Is the manager here?” Dryden asked, smiling kindly. “Tell her I would like to speak with her, and I’ve brought a guest.”

“Katerin’s upstairs in her office. Just follow me,” Theo said, running off toward the stairs at the far side of the large room.

Dryden sighed and shook his head at the child’s oblivious back, but motioned for Siobhan to accompany him as he followed.

The large room inside was mostly filled with tables, except for the long bar backed by bottles and kegs at one end, and the curtained stage at the other. On the far wall, scribbles that looked like various bets and their odds covered a spacious chalkboard. A door led off to what she thought was a kitchen. Siobhan imagined it was a popular establishment, with so many attractions to draw the locals. It would be easy to camouflage any suspicious activity within the chaos of legitimate patronage. If the other rooms up above were for guests, making this an inn as well as an entertainment hall, even better.

The three of them went up the stairs and down to the end of the connected hallway. Theo knocked perfunctorily, then opened the door and poked his head in. “Katerin, Mr. Oliver’s here, and he brought a man disguised as a homeless person with him.”

Siobhan stared at the bright hair on the back of the child’s head. “What?” She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until both Dryden and Theo turned to look at her.

Theo gave her a little smirk that held no malice. “Well, I’m not gonna tell anyone. But your cloak seems to’ve been taken off a homeless man, and the jacket underneath doesn’t fit you properly. But you talk and walk like someone from a Crown Family, and when Mr. Oliver looks you in the eyes, you stare right back at him. So, I figure it’s a disguise.”

Siobhan struggled to keep the surprise from her face. She had indeed stolen the cloak from a man passed out on the side of a street in hopes it would help disguise her. The clothes beneath were meant for a female, of course, and too small for this new body, in addition to having been torn and dirtied in her escape. “Well, you may be right about the clothes and the mannerisms, but I can assure you, I am quite homeless.”

Theo shrugged.

From within the room, Siobhan heard a loud sigh, followed by a woman’s voice with a throaty, biting accent. “Let them in, Theo, and go to bed. I do not wish to have to tell you again. If I find you haven’t gone to sleep…” The threat in her voice was obvious, and the boy blanched and ran off with one last wave to Dryden, leaving the door open behind him.

Siobhan’s stomach clenched with apprehension, but she didn’t wait for Dryden to lead her in. She stepped forward, pushing the door the rest of the way open.

Behind an imposing mahogany desk, which was covered in papers and lit with a warm yellow glow from a light crystal, sat a beautiful, crimson-haired woman with heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Vampire,’ came Siobhan’s immediate thought. However, further inspection revealed olive-toned skin, and when the woman smiled, the teeth behind her lips were square-tipped and distinctly humanoid. ‘Of course, that could be an illusion.’ If Siobhan had water imbued with energy from the Plane of Radiance, she could be sure, but even displaying a capped vial would be an overt act of aggression to a real vampire. Besides, if the woman were disguising her true nature, why would she not change the color of her hair, as well?

‘Relax,’ Siobhan thought to herself. ‘There is a difference between wariness and skittish paranoia.’ With a conscious exhalation, she nodded at the woman and stepped forward to make way for Dryden to enter behind her.

Katerin raised an eyebrow at him.

The amusement in Dryden’s voice was obvious. “What I found wasn’t exactly what I went looking for.”

“I can see that. What is it, exactly, that you have brought me, Oliver?” she said, not unkindly, as shrewd eyes looked Siobhan’s new body up and down.

Dryden moved to stand beside the fireplace in the corner, sighing with exaggerated relief at the warmth. Katerin’s impatience grew palpable. “I’m not sure how to explain this,” he finally said, one edge of his lips curling up.

Katerin’s mouth tightened. “I’m too tired to deal with this shit, Dryden. Just tell me.”

When Dryden still hesitated, Siobhan spoke. “I’m the one the coppers are looking for,” she said simply. She couldn’t stop her gaze from twitching nervously toward Dryden, uncomfortable with incriminating herself before another stranger. However, the woman had obviously been complicit in Dryden’s plan to aid and bargain with a fugitive sorcerer. Being coy wouldn’t help her here. Siobhan tried to reassure herself that things could hardly get worse, but she was, regrettably, too intelligent to believe her own lie. ‘It can always get worse.’

Dryden lost his smirk, along with his control of the conversation and Katerin’s attention, but he nodded reassuringly at Siobhan as she opened her mouth to continue explaining.

“I had no plans to steal anything, but when I found myself in possession of the book, it was already too late. Within the book was an artifact that causes a full-body transmutation.” She gestured to herself. “I meant to become a student of the University just this morning, before my life was torn apart by the imbecilic, egocentric and completely outrageous actions of a man who could not consider the needs of someone else before himself even if he were cursed with a blood-bound vow of philanthropy!” She ran out of breath and realized she was panting, her teeth bared. She swallowed deliberately, then closed her mouth and ran her tongue across the inside of her teeth for a couple seconds to regain her composure. “Forgive me. I am…upset to have my wellbeing and future jeopardized so severely.”

Katerin let out the smallest huff of air. It might have been an indicator of amusement.

Dryden cleared his throat. “She has a clean identity. To attend the University, she now only needs money.”

Katerin leaned her elbows on the desk and dropped her head forward to rub at her temples. “Perhaps you could slow down and explain things to me in more detail. With some coherence, this time.”

Siobhan flushed and was discomfited to realize that, with such pale skin, the involuntary reaction was probably quite obvious.

This time, Dryden took the initiative to explain. “The reports of the nefarious sorcerer who stole an ancient text brought back from the University’s latest expedition were…somewhat exaggerated.” He continued, explaining everything he and Siobhan had discussed.

Katerin seemed to grow more tired as he spoke.

Siobhan, in contrast, drew herself up even straighter, as if impeccable posture would shield her against disappointment.

“A loan of that size is a significant investment,” the woman said. “It is not the first time one of the common people have requested it. Without a license to practice, it is unlikely he…she”—Katerin looked at Siobhan and waved a hand dismissively—“would ever be able to repay me. A license requires that she be able to gain admittance as well as complete at least the first three terms. I will need assurance that she can do so,” she said, turning to Siobhan.

Siobhan knew what Katerin meant. “You wish to see me perform a spell?”

“You told Oliver here that you were capable of such. If that is true, perhaps you’ll be useful. However, you must also demonstrate the capability of this artifact. If you cannot successfully disguise yourself in the long term, it’s pointless to continue this discussion.”

Siobhan pushed back her shoulders, the movement of this new body feeling less wrong already. Did it matter if the form were not her own—not quite right—if, by using it, she could learn magic? There was little she wouldn’t be willing to pay. She reached up to the amulet at her neck and pulled it out of her clothing once again. A quick glance showed interest from both Dryden and Katerin, but none of the greed that would signal danger. Even with the ability to inspect the amulet again in the light, she saw no obvious controls or switches, no signs of it being an artifact at all. If it only worked one way and the spell never wore off, she would never return to her former appearance.

The thought made her hand clench around it with apprehension, and her mind slipped into that particular kind of focus that spellcasting required. As she had done so many times before, she reached for a spark of power to feed into the spell. There was no Circle, but for only the barest hint of energy, she didn’t need one. The artifact warmed her palm, and then that same tingling warmth spread across her frame. Obviously, the artificer who created it had been a Master, at the least. Within a couple seconds, the warm tingle receded.

When Siobhan opened her eyes, their viewpoint was just a little lower than what she had already grown used to. She let out a sigh of relief. Her shoes no longer pinched, and a quick look down at herself revealed long, pitch-black strands of hair and the creamy ochre skin that revealed her heritage. Her mother had been one of the People.

Katerin looked her up and down, then nodded. “Now turn back.”

Siobhan did, grimacing at the pinch of her boots and the sense of physical dysmorphia.

“What are the base ingredients of a fever-reducing potion?” Katerin asked.

Siobhan didn’t even need to think. “There are a few different variations of fever reducers. Common ingredients are white willow bark, boneset, yarrow, ice, or any body part from an albino frost toad—though the core is the best—lake fog harvested before the sun fully rises, spearmint, and a couple feathers from a dove or a sparrow for a feeling of breezy comfort.”

Katerin didn’t seem impressed, but she didn’t seem disappointed, either. “You can brew all of these variations?”

Siobhan nodded. Simple healing potions and salves were always in demand, and it had been an easy way for her to trade for goods or a place to sleep in the towns her father and she had passed through. She rarely had access to any ingredient she wanted, so had often been forced to brew variations based on what she could forage from the nearby land. She had even used them herself a few times.

Dryden shared a quick look with Katerin, then said, “You mentioned simple spell creation. If I wanted you to find a way to continuously circulate water from the ground up to a higher location in a way that would require little maintenance, could you do that? A method that doesn’t require constant attention from a thaumaturge, to be specific.”

Siobhan frowned. “I would need a power source, of course, but that seems fairly simple. I’d need some time to design the most efficient array, and maybe a couple reference texts, but if we could use a small fire as a Sacrifice, and ensure it continued to be fed, it should provide enough power for lift. Perhaps, if we could then catch the water falling down again, I might be able to design something that recycled the gravitational momentum to make the circulation more efficient. It would still need to be recharged, but as an artifact rather than an actively-cast spell, it’d probably last a while. To be honest, artificery isn’t my specialty, though,” she admitted reluctantly.

Dryden’s broad smile gave her some reassurance.

Katerin leaned forward. “And you’re able to recharge artifacts?”

“Basic ones, yes. I would need to know what was Sacrificed and what the artifact’s purpose is, but that’s often explained in the engraved Word array guiding input, conversion, and output.”

Siobhan knew she was exaggerating a little. She’d only recharged the simplest of artifacts before, things like light crystals or a spark shooter. Her grandfather hadn’t gotten around to teaching her more than the basics. Most of her knowledge was hard-won and scattered, gained however she could from whoever she found to teach her along the way. She wasn’t picky. Magic was magic. If she were admitted to the University and gained access to their resources, she was sure she could work out how to recharge more complicated artifacts.

“Show me something esoteric,” Katerin said.

Siobhan quickly ran through her somewhat limited repertoire, searching for something she still had the Will to guide and the proper components for the Sacrifice. Esoteric spells were often small tricks that had been passed down through a family, or from master to apprentice, and didn’t comply to the stricter structure of modern sorcery. Some didn’t even use a physical spell array.

The shifting shadows caused by the dancing flames in the fireplace drew her eye, and she turned toward the far wall, staring down at her own shadow. ‘Somehow, I don’t imagine this was how you saw me using this little trick, Grandfather.’ Tucking her Conduit between two fingers, she made a Circle with her hands, forefingers and thumbs touching each other. She exhaled through it. Her breath turned visible as it floated past her fingers, the heat sucked from it. She pressed her toes a little harder against the ground, and whispered, “Life’s breath, shadow mine. In darkness we were born. In darkness do we feast. Devour, and arise.”

She repeated this three times, and with each repetition her shadow darkened slightly, unnaturally. After the third time, the shadow writhed across the floor. It stretched long, crawled up the far wall, and then turned its head as if looking around, two spots of shadow missing to create two round, bright eyes, all while Siobhan remained still. The air between her hands shimmered faintly with the magic, like a heat mirage, but there was no spell array to let off a glow. As a child, she had used the shadow-familiar spell to play, like other children held mock tea parties with their dolls.

Dryden let out a small exclamation, and Siobhan released the magic, letting her shadow return to normal.

“Do you have any battle magic?” Katerin asked.

Siobhan hesitated. “Not as such. There are many ways magic can be used offensively, but I’m not well-versed in any specific combat spells. I do know a vexing tone hex, but it’s mostly useful against animals.”

Katerin waved that away with a flick of her wrist. “You are aware that practicing magic without a license is a crime in Lenore? That includes recharging artifacts and any alchemy which surpasses basic ingredient-combining.”

Siobhan narrowed her eyes, though she knew the words weren’t a threat. Those things were likely what they wanted from her. “You could simply wait three terms till I gain an Apprentice license.”

Katerin smiled, showing off her human teeth again. “Alternatively, you could simply perform any crimes in the identity which is already a criminal.” Her eyes carefully scanned Siobhan’s face for her reaction. Before Siobhan could respond, Katerin continued. “Because, you see, this is a very high-risk loan on my part. One thousand gold crowns per term? At half again that in yearly interest? Even if you manage to gain your license, an Apprentice still couldn’t afford to repay me the monthly interest. I just don’t see how that benefits me, when what I really need isn’t money, but a thaumaturge.”

Siobhan almost choked. “One thousand? Half again—fifty percent—in yearly interest? Per term?” With a single loan, she would owe fifteen hundred gold crowns by this same time next year, and with an additional thousand each term, she would owe over forty-six hundred gold by the time she got her Apprentice license, which would come with over two thousand gold in yearly interest. Impossible. “I would be indebted to you for the rest of my life.”

Katerin waved her hand dismissively. “The University is quite expensive, and you’ll also need living expenses. One thousand isn’t outrageous, especially if you wish for this disguise of yours to fit in. As for the interest rate…” She smiled without mirth, and Siobhan wondered again if the woman was altogether human. “Well, what kind of business do you think we are? No, you’ll not be able to repay me in gold crowns. However, I’m quite willing to be repaid in services rendered. If you perform well, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to pay off the debt in a few years. Magic pays well.”

Dryden walked over to Siobhan and clapped her on the shoulder, squeezing gently. He ignored her instinctive flinch. “Don’t worry, Siobhan. We don’t wish for you to do anything morally reprehensible, I’m sure. Only for you to practice what skills you have for our benefit, and the benefit of those who need them and cannot receive help elsewhere.”

‘If he’s telling the truth, it’s no more than I’ve done before,’ she acknowledged. Except that in the outer villages and towns, no coppers would arrest and imprison someone for working a little magic. In fact, the local thaumaturges and law enforcement were often the most likely to be able to afford or trade for what she could offer. ‘I can simply give back whatever I do not spend once the term has started. Just because she gives loans in increments of one thousand gold doesn’t mean I truly need to borrow that much.’ Her hesitation came from the feeling that these people would ask more of her than she was willing to give, once they had bound her to them. Even so, she was not so naive as to lie to herself now. She would not be walking away from the deal. “I maintain the right to refuse any favors you may request of me, and each one must be attached to a monetary value for repayment.” She raised her chin in challenge.

Katerin shrugged. “You may refuse, if you wish, but only on the basis of our request being morally reprehensible—not simply distasteful, dangerous, or inconvenient. Keep in mind that repayment must be made one way or the other. I will not allow you to postpone till you graduate. Still, there are many things you might do, if some particular request is distasteful to you. We are not unreasonable.”

Siobhan’s mind spun. ‘Am I missing anything here?’ She stared Katerin down. “I assume this is obvious, but this agreement must remain confidential. I cannot have my new appearance compromised.”

Katerin and Dryden shared a look of amusement. “Of course,” Katerin said, and Dryden nodded in agreement.

“You will also need access to certain amenities, I believe,” Dryden said, gazing at her ragged clothes while fingering the breast of his own suit. “If you want to fit in, that is.”

Siobhan stiffened at the implied insult, a slurry of defensive words rising up in her throat. She swallowed them back down. ‘He’s right. Just because I don’t like the way it sounds doesn’t make it any less true.’ Her fingers trembled, and she forced them to relax. She hated people who got offended by the truth, people who felt the need to lash out at the one who spoke it. She wouldn’t be one of them. Instead of a verbal response, she nodded jerkily. ‘I want new clothes. I deserve them. This is good.’

After that, things went quickly. Katerin fetched a small chest filled with gold. Siobhan almost dropped it, surprised at the weight, even though she had known objectively that gold was one of the heaviest substances. It was a common spell component, though she had never had the opportunity to use any as a Sacrifice.

Powerful thaumaturges could transmute cheaper substances, like lead, into gold or other precious metals, but it still remained a difficult and expensive process which kept those products out of the hands of the poor. Despite this ability, the Crowns’ coinage remained valuable because it was created with some secret method to verify its authenticity. The penalty for attempting to create a counterfeit was death, and they controlled the amount minted, thus maintaining the value of their currency. Siobhan held the locked box tight against her chest, glaringly conscious of its worth. “Do you need me to sign some sort of contract?”

“Of course. You will be giving a blood print vow.”

The color drained from Siobhan’s face.

Katerin waved her hand as if shooing away Siobhan’s misgivings. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but that”—she pointed to the chest—“is quite a large sum of money. I won’t use the blood print unless you force me to find you and make things…right.” She smiled widely. “The vow will cover the terms of the loan and repayment, with a restriction against malfeasance on both our parts. Besides, my blood is required too. Don’t be so distrustful.”

Siobhan’s arms tightened around the chest of gold. Each small piece might as well have been a little drop of knowledge, of magic. ‘Didn’t I already admit I wouldn’t be walking away?’ she asked herself. She wasn’t capable of such a thing. It would have been easier to ask her to cut off her own foot than to abandon this opportunity. ‘I will simply have to ensure I repay them, one way or another.’

Katerin unlocked a drawer in her desk and took out two pieces of parchment with the vow’s Circle and Word array already drawn on them.

‘How often does she use blood prints, that she has the spell so readily accessible?’ Siobhan examined the Circle, trying to decipher how the magic worked. It would compel them to keep the promise they made when pressing their blood into it, and allow use of the blood by the wronged party if either of them reneged on their agreement despite the compulsion. It seemed as though any attempt to use the blood without meeting those requirements, which could only be malicious, would result in the immediate incineration of that party’s copy of the agreement. She wished she knew more about this particular type of blood magic, other than the general warnings about how illegal and dangerous all blood magic was.

“We both have some magical training, so there’s no need to have a third party as a binder,” Katerin said. She took a fountain pen and wrote out a couple paragraphs explaining the exact terms of their deal on both copies.

Siobhan read it carefully, relieved to know that the interest would only compound once yearly, and the daily rate would be recalculated every time she made a payment. She took the fountain pen from Katerin’s desk and added on a clause stating that the lender would act in good faith, allowing the borrower opportunity to repay the debt in a timely manner.

Katerin smiled wryly and nodded, then placed a piece of amber and a knotted leather cord in the component Circles, with a small candle as Sacrifice. She pricked the pad of her thumb with the letter opener on her desk, then gestured for Siobhan to do the same.

They both pressed their bloody thumbs into the middle of the Circle, and Siobhan followed Katerin in speaking.

“I, Katerin Russey, am the lender.”

“I, Siobhan Naught, am the borrower.”

With the starting phrase, “By my blood, I vow,” they read the agreement together, slowly and carefully enunciating each word. They finished the spell with, “So mote it be.”

The candle flame guttered out as if pinched by an invisible hand, and the lines on the parchment glowed as the spell bound them to their vow.

Both the knot and the piece of amber had been consumed, and Katerin took out another set for the second copy of the blood print spell, relit the candle, and they repeated the process. The magic felt even stronger with the repetition. When they finished, Katerin took one copy, and Siobhan the other.

Siobhan didn’t feel any different, but she knew the only way to escape from this vow would be to complete the terms or destroy both sets of spelled parchment.

Katerin carefully stowed her own copy of the parchment in the locked drawer. Her tone became businesslike as her attention seemed to drift away from Siobhan. “Your first payment will be due by the end of the month.”

Siobhan found herself out on the streets again almost before she realized what happened, the built-up fatigue of the day catching up with her in snippets of detachment and a skewed sense of time. It was over. Over. ‘But what now? Where am I to go?’ She looked around at the unfamiliar streets, wondering if perhaps she should return to Katerin and ask if she could rent a room for the night. She had slept on the ground before, but with the chest of gold sitting so heavy in one of the packs on her back, she didn’t feel secure sleeping in the streets.

Dryden stepped past her, then stopped and turned, one of the street lamps illuminating him from the side and throwing a stark shadow into the street. “I suppose you’ll need a place to stay for the night? The inns will be closed by now, and you don’t want this appearance associated with the Verdant Stag.”

She nodded.

“You will come to my house,” he announced, as if there was no room for argument. “We’ll prepare you for what’s to come.”

“I don’t need your help.”

His mouth twisted into that vulpine smile again. “You misunderstand. I’m helping myself. Any benefit to you is incidental.”

Somehow, those words made it bearable. “Alright.”

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Chapter 4 - Puzzles & Self-Creation

Siobhan

Month 9, Day 28, Monday 5:30 a.m.

Siobhan woke with a strangled scream in her throat, her jaw clenched so hard she could feel her teeth creaking. Ephemeral flashes of flames reflecting off pooling blood passed in front of her eyes as she stared into the darkness. Her heart pounded as if she had been racing through the streets of Gilbratha in a wild panic, and the soft sheets below her were cold with sweat. The flashes of her dream faded as she left sleep behind, and she forced herself to relax. ‘I forgot to cast my dreamless sleep spell,’ she realized.

She sat up and moved stiffly to the window, undoing the latch and pushing it open. The cool air flushed in, smelling of salt. She looked out onto the empty street below and kept breathing till she had calmed. It was only then that she became aware of her body, which was still transformed into the unfamiliar male form. The night before, Dryden had brought her to his house—though to her eyes it looked more like a mansion—and she had immediately, recklessly, fallen asleep on the bed in a second-story guest room, with her packs tucked in beside her for some semblance of safety.

Siobhan’s lack of discomfort with the new body sent an incongruous shudder down her spine. ‘It cannot be normal for me to forget that my body is not my own. It’s been less than a day, and yet I’ve slipped into this skin so seamlessly it might as well have been mine since birth. Is there some sort of error in my psyche that makes me so detached? Or, perhaps this abnormal level of comfort is an effect of the spell. The creator was certainly skilled enough to do something like that.’The thought comforted her, and she deliberately decided to believe the latter explanation.

The transformation didn’t seem to have degraded overnight. There was no slippage back into her female form, and no loss of control or feelings of disassociation with the new body. A perfunctory examination showed no change to the artifact, either, though she knew no diagnostic spells to be sure of that.

Despite her discomfort with this form, and the dread she felt over its possible consequences—magic always had a cost—she couldn’t pretend to be anything other than overwhelmingly, pathetically grateful that she’d discovered the amulet. This body gave her access to magic, to knowledge beyond anything a commoner could ever dream of. It was the tool that would let her unravel the inner secrets of the universe and then remake them according to her Will. And it would keep her out of jail.

She would wear it until it became as natural as her first form. She would love it.

Absently picking at the dirt under her nails, Siobhan moved to the corner and activated the light crystals. Ironically, the brightness only made the shadows at the corner of the room and under the door seem more ominous.

Awkwardly, she sat on the chamber pot in the corner and relieved herself, experiencing the strange sensation of magic cleaning and drying her nether regions for the first time. The chamber pot, which was apparently an artifact, began to process the waste, and another spell kept the smell from filtering out into the room. Unsure how to feel about this use of magic, Siobhan limped back to the packs on the bed and dug around in one for a small jar of bruise salve.

As she slowly rubbed the salve into the bruises that seemed to cover half her newly pale body in mottled purple, blue, and green—a pattern that, though painful, looked almost artistic—Siobhan considered her transformation. ‘At least I know injuries transfer between my normal and transformed states. I wonder how it works. Will I have my time of the month, or have those organs been absorbed and transformed too?’ She shuddered at the thought of things that could potentially go wrong. What if she were to transform from a female to male halfway through her time of the month, and the remaining blood was not either absorbed into the spell or expelled from her body? ‘I hope the artifact’s creator considered possibilities like that. What about aging? If that’s considered damage like a wound, then both bodies should age at the same rate. If I build muscle as a man, will I be stronger as a female?’ She imagined her normal body bulging out of her clothes with muscle, and let out a small snort of amusement.

She’d made the bruise salve herself, and it was high quality, sending alternating waves of chill and warmth through her flesh, easing the pain and stiffness and speeding her healing. She should’ve applied the salve last night, before the injuries had time to settle. They would take longer to heal, now.

She stretched experimentally, then moved to the door and carefully opened it, peeking into the dark hallway beyond. It was empty, except for the ornate rug and a couple little tables with vases and knickknacks that were likely worth more than her Conduit.

She slipped out, closing the bedroom door behind her. She noted the utter lack of bending or creaking beneath her feet as she walked down the hallway. The floor was made of solid, uncut marble, despite the fact that she was on the second level. ‘What a waste of resources. How much magic went into building this house?’ Still, it suited her purpose at the moment.

She reviewed her hazy memories of arriving the night before, the effects of Will-strain evident in retrospect. Too much spellcasting, along with stress and fatigue, led to a variety of side-effects, and could be truly dangerous. She’d been distracted and disoriented, and much of her journey to Dryden Manor had been lost to a minor fugue state.

She vaguely remembered that he’d told her the servants didn’t live in his house, and had all gone home, before personally serving her some drinking water and leading her up the stairs to the empty bedroom. ‘I believe I made quite a few less than intelligent decisions yesterday,’ she admitted ruefully. However, no one had yet invented a spell to travel back in time, so there was nothing to be done about it but accept her current situation and move on.

The first few doors she opened led to other bedrooms, so rather than accidentally open the door to Dryden’s room and—if he had an alarm ward set—alert him to her intrusion, she found her way down the stairs back to the first level. The rooms there were more varied, though equally opulent, and she couldn’t help her bright smile of excitement when she found a sizeable room filled with books. She’d heard of libraries before from her grandfather, and though this didn’t seem so large as what she had imagined, there were still more books than she’d ever seen in one place. Large windows were placed to let in the sunlight during the day, and at the far side of the room, next to a bay window with a wide bench beneath it, sat an imposing desk covered with papers.

Siobhan headed straight for it. She eyed the closed drawers on the sides, but didn’t touch them in case they were warded. She didn’t even turn on the crystal lamp atop the desk, and instead clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from wandering curiously. She bent over to read what she could by the light of the moon and the streetlamps through the half-uncovered window. To her disappointment, she found nothing scandalous or nefarious. In fact, most of the papers seemed to be notes or information about the logistics of starting and running various businesses. “First choice of workers should be the Mires—the neediest will benefit most,” Dryden had scribbled on one paper.

When further examination—still without touching—uncovered nothing more, Siobhan turned to the bookshelves covering the walls. She didn’t use the ladder to reach the higher shelves, simply perusing the titles of the books within her reach. To her disappointment, the only books about magic were theoretical and abstract in nature. There were no grimoires or educational texts, though she did find a shelf of fiction novels—sensationalist adventures and other silly stories. Disappointed, she stopped by the kitchen on the way back to her room, pilfering a couple out-of-season fruits and a loaf of bread. Magic was hungry work.

‘What did I expect to find?’ She wasn’t sure, but she knew a piece of this puzzle didn’t fit with the others. She wasn’t valuable enough for Dryden to go to all this effort to help her, especially if he and Katerin were true to their word and didn’t plan to make her do anything morally reprehensible to repay them. ‘If that were true, it would take much less effort to simply hire a legitimate sorcerer. The terms of my loan may be ridiculously biased toward Katerin, but I’d guess the book and the artifact to be worth more than the interest she’ll earn from me. If it were true that they didn’t want either item because of the danger of law enforcement, why would they be willing to associate with the person who stole it? No, I cannot trust them.’

In the light of her room’s spelled crystal lamps, she consumed the food ravenously while examining the floor beneath one of the plush rugs. The marble underneath was just rough enough to take chalk easily. No doubt that was on purpose, an affectation of the wealthy, since the ability to perform magic was a status symbol. She rolled the rug up and away, settling it in the corner. The stone was cool against her bare feet, but she didn’t mind.

She knelt on the ground and pulled out a stick of chalk wrapped in wax paper, then peeled away one edge to open up the drawing medium. She drew a Circle, using a string to keep it as close to perfectly round as possible. The Circle was large, allowing plenty of room for the Word, the instructional spell array that would help her guide the magical energy. Time slipped away as she bent her mind to the puzzle of creating a decryption spell, so that she didn’t even notice the pastel light of dawn creeping over the horizon and giving the room a ghostly feel.

She was familiar with the encryption spell on her own grimoire, which Grandfather had designed and helped her cast as a child. Decryption was complex and difficult, an ever-evolving field which she knew little about. Although she could design a spell that would probably decrypt her own grimoire, if she were powerful enough, that was only because she understood the original encryption.

After placing the stolen book in the center of the main Circle, Siobhan took a step back. The risk she was about to take was unlikely to pay off, but it wasn’t as if she knew anyone who could help her with this, and she needed to know what the book said. Hopefully, there would be some explanation about the amulet. She looked over the spell again, searching for any obvious risks or inefficiencies. She’d heard plenty of horror stories about careless sorcerers and minor mistakes, and wasn’t eager to become someone else’s cautionary tale.

Magic, in its most basic form, was change. A trade of one thing for another.

There were three elements to every spell, though the way a thaumaturge achieved each element would vary according to their craft, as well as their level of skill and personal preference. The three elements were the Will, the Word, and the Sacrifice.

The Circle facilitated all three elements, and most magical crafts used one in some way. In drawing a Circle, you placed a physical boundary around a spherical domain you controlled, signifying that the things within were yours to trade away and change as you wished. It was possible to create a spell that affected something at a distance, like the stunning spell stored in the coppers’ battle wands, but those effects started within a Circle too.

A thaumaturge’s Will made magic possible. Philosophers and scientists alike struggled to define it to their satisfaction, but Siobhan had always felt it was quite simple. The Will was a combination of heart-wrenching desire and undeniable command that she pushed into the fabric of the world. Reality bent under the force of her Will because it could not have done otherwise.

The stronger a person’s Will, the more power they could channel, the less defined the Word needed to be, and the less power would be lost in conversion. With a strong enough Will, the knowledge to match it, and the right resources, a thaumaturge could raise mountains with a wave of their hand, pierce the veil between life and death, and travel into the Elemental Planes. She doubted there was anything magic could not accomplish, if the thaumaturge was strong enough.

The Word guided the transformation of energy or matter, steering the effects of the spell. It could be any type of instruction, though with sorcery it was most often written into the Circle as an array of glyphs and numerically significant symbols. These were often supplemented with speech or written instructions, especially for complex effects. Here, the Word was as complex, clear, and detailed as she could make it, which would hopefully reduce strain on her Will.

The Sacrifice was what one gave up for the effect of the spell. It could be an object, like a blob of mud used to create a brick, or energy, like the heat from a flame.

Modern magic had defined two different subsets of spells. Transmutation was based on the natural sciences. Water had a natural connection to ice, because with only a change in energy, one became the other. Transmogrification was based on sympathetic science. Water had a sympathetic connection to a drowning curse because people mentally associated deep waters with death. Thus, water could be used as a Sacrifice in a variety of different spells with completely different effects.

For this spell, she was using a few different components based on truth, text, and good sight. The flame from a small oil lantern would provide her with energy.

Finally, the Conduit channeled the thaumaturgic energy being converted. For most sorcerers, this was a celerium crystal, which could withstand powerful magical forces without exploding or melting. Celerium was the only element that even the most powerful could not to transmute duplicates of, nor could they use transmogrification to transfer its properties through Sacrifice. It had esoteric properties that they did not understand, but which made it specially suited for its purpose. It could only be found in natural deposits like Lenore’s mines.

Her own Conduit was rated up to two hundred fifty thaums, which was still a few dozen more than her Will could handle. Eventually, with practice to strengthen her Will, she would need to upgrade. When the time came, her father would pass down her mother’s Conduit to her, an heirloom ring that he wore to remember the woman by, since Siobhan didn’t technically need it yet. Or so he insisted.

The first and most important rule her grandfather had pounded into her head was the importance of never, ever, performing a spell without a proper Conduit.

He’d given her nightmares with his cautionary tales. She was only ten at the time, and hadn’t started her apprenticeship with him, but he’d found her pretending to cast magic from one of his books instead of writing her assigned essay. She remembered it well. ‘Magic is like a beast,’ he had said. ‘Or a swarm of insects,’ he amended.

She’d been terrified by a swarm of angry bees only a couple weeks before, and her eyes widened as she pulled the covers up a little higher under her chin.

‘Used properly, it can be guided with your Will. Controlled. But never tamed. However, it must have something to travel through as it transforms your Sacrifice into your magical effect. And without a Conduit, it will travel through you. Like a swarm of invisible insects, it will crawl inside and infest you. It will spread from your body to your mind, and some say even your soul,’ he intoned ominously as she stared at him unblinkingly.

‘It will bite, and tear, and sting you from the inside. But you will not realize it. For at the first touch of magic in your flesh, in your mind, you will feel only bliss. Such bliss that you will never want to stop. That is its poison, its revenge for your hubris in channeling it directly. Even those with the strength of your mother’s bloodline have lost themselves to it. I have seen a man’s flesh bulge out with pustules that burst and revealed clusters of eyes growing beneath his skin. I have seen a woman whose mind warped such that she felt an all-consuming hunger for the flesh of children whose blood still ran warm in their veins. Another man simply…disappeared. He was screaming with pleasure, but it sounded like he was being tortured. He faded away before my eyes—right in the middle of the street—and was never seen again. Though occasionally, when I walked that street at night, I would hear faint echoes of his screams in the wind.’

She had whimpered, and Grandfather’s faraway gaze had returned to the present, peering down at her sharply. ‘And that is why we never cast without a Conduit. Especially with your father’s weak bloodline. It is not safe, my child.’

Even now, Siobhan shuddered at the images her grandfather’s words had conjured. Assured that everything was as safe as she could make it, Siobhan clasped her Conduit between both hands and bent her Will to the decryption spell, the candle flame trembling as she pulled at it.

The text inside remained a jumbled mess of letters she recognized mixed with ones she was sure she’d never seen, none forming anything like comprehensible words, or any pattern at all. The occasional inked graph or illustrations were nothing more than loopy scribbles that seemed as if someone had tried to draw something from memory, with their eyes closed, without ever lifting their pen from the paper. Looking at it from afar, with her eyes slightly squinted, it seemed deceptively, tantalizingly close to coherence. There were words, paragraphs, and illustrations, not so different from her own grimoire. But when she focused, it made the back of her eyes ache to try and read it.

So she pushed harder, all of her concentration focused on that particular type of resolve that caused the world to bend and bow down under the weight of her Will. The candle flame guttered out, and she stumbled as the spell failed, vertigo sending the room spinning around her. ‘How pitiful,’ she thought angrily. ‘Close to Will-strain from a single failed spell?’

She’d known the risk was unlikely to pay off, but she was still bitterly disappointed. Either the book’s creator had been a much stronger thaumaturge than her, or the gap between the method of decryption and the sophistication of the encryption was simply too great. Most likely both. It didn’t help that she was still exhausted from the day before.

Siobhan noted details of the failed decryption spell in her grimoire, then returned to the stolen book, flipping through it in the hopes of finding some sort of clue in the jumbled, unintelligible symbols and shifting, half-ephemeral drawings that always twisted or faded before her eyes could quite capture them. Returning to a previous page, she found it completely different from the first time she looked at it. The number of pages couldn’t even be counted with any certainty.

Shutting the book, Siobhan’s eyes lingered on the single rune stamped on the cover. It refused to clarify into a shape with meaning. ‘Perhaps the text itself isn’t encrypted, but is casting some sort of illusion spell on me?’

She rooted through her pockets, wondering what spell components she had that could be associated with clarity of mind. ‘Would the small shard of crystal and the eagle feathers from my dreamless sleep spell be useful? Maybe some ginseng, too, though I don’t have any with me.’

When the door to her room opened, half her components were laid out on the floor, grouped by their sympathetic properties. She had scribbled over the half-erased Circle from the first spell with notes, arrows, and partially designed spell arrays.

Dryden’s gaze swept over the room.

Siobhan sat back on her heels and followed the path of his eyes, suddenly aware of the mess she’d made. “I have a system,” she muttered, alarmed to feel a blush creep up her cheeks. “It only looks like chaos to the untrained eye.” At times, she could get a little carried away trying to solve a puzzle.

He leaned a shoulder against the doorway, one eyebrow raised. “Obviously.”

Only now, as she looked at him without the pall of danger hanging over her every thought, did she realize how perfectly attractive the man was. His shoulders were broad, his hair soft and shiny-looking, and his gaze bright enough to reveal a keen mind beneath. He was likely a competent thaumaturge. His pristine white shirt cuffs were rolled up to his elbows, and as he crossed his arms she noted the muscles in his forearms and his long, graceful fingers. The vague feeling of attraction made her uncomfortable, and more aware than ever of her transformed body. She looked away.

After a moment, he waved at her impatiently. “At least the transformation spell lasted the night. Come, there is much to do if we are to submit your application for the entrance exams by the end of the day. We have until six before they stop accepting new applicants.”

Siobhan shot to her feet. “Six tonight? That’s the cut-off for this entire term!?” The new body’s voice refused to pitch as high as she pushed it, cracking instead.

He motioned for her to follow him again, this time more impatiently. “Indeed. Therefore, we must get to work immediately. You can return to summoning a demon, or whatever you were doing, later.”

She grimaced and hurried to re-stock her pockets and her little storage box with the components strewn across the floor. “I was attempting to decipher the book,” she muttered, following him down the hallway.

“Oh? Did you have much success?” he said without turning his head.

“No,” she admitted grudgingly. “I’m not an expert on wards or encryptions, and I lack the proper components for more efficient spells of that nature.”

“Hmm.” Dryden seemed neither surprised nor disappointed. “Well, you’ll learn at the University?” It was a statement, but pitched like a question.

“Yes,” she said firmly, absently somewhat pleased at the gravitas a male voice lent to her inflection. She had never been the squeaky sort of female, but few women who were not addicted to smoking cat’s-cough could achieve such a natural-sounding resonance.

Siobhan spent the majority of the day under Dryden’s instruction. First, he sent her to take a bath in his luxurious bathing room, once again made of marble. The taps were spelled to spill hot water into a basin sunk into the floor. ‘Just who have I gotten myself involved with?’ she wondered while scrubbing herself with scented soaps and some porous thing she thought might be the corpse of a sea-plant called a “sponge.” Dryden wasn’t one of the Crown Family surnames, but the level of wealth on display in his home evoked a sense of royalty.

After that, he had her dress in a deliciously soft woolen suit, one of his own, that he said was “from last year’s style” with a self-aware, slightly mocking sneer in his voice, as if he knew how absurd he sounded. The suit was too big for her, but they had no time to tailor it. He even examined her walk as they moved to the book-filled study she had snooped around the night before to make sure she didn’t sway her hips in a feminine manner. “Among the crowd you’ll be associating with, appearances are important. Attractiveness, body language, and eloquence are essential tools. People can be power, if you know how to cultivate them,” he said.

It was obvious he followed his own advice. Dryden’s appearance, his home, the way he interacted with the world and those around him, it all amplified the impression of tasteful, controlled wealth and power.

‘Still, it’s so tedious. People are, in general, uninspired troglodytes. People might be power, but magic is power, too, and it’s a power I much prefer. A person may betray or disappoint you, but you can always depend on your own mastery of magic.’

He motioned for her to sit down in one of the plush chairs as a servant brought them food. When the woman left, he said, “It must seem, to anyone who bothers to look, as if you fit in at the University. You will walk like them, talk like them, and dress like them. The goal is to avoid notice altogether.” He looked at her critically, then sighed. “My job here could be harder, I suppose. If not for the clothes, and the fact that you’re sitting like a girl, I might not realize immediately that you’re an impostor. Spread your legs!” he snapped.

Siobhan did so, and realized immediately that it was much more…comfortable, that way. She had tried not to pay too much attention to the area between her legs while bathing, but she supposed she’d best get used to being a young man, since she would be spending quite a long time in this form, if things went well.

“Now, let us come up with your story, young man. What is your name?” Dryden leaned back in his leather chair, leveling her with a challenging gaze.

Siobhan was intelligent enough not to blurt out her own name, at least. ‘Best if it’s something similar enough to my real name that I react naturally upon hearing it, but not so similar as to be suspicious,’ she thought. “My name is Sebastien,” she said, feeling out the name as it passed her lips.

Dryden nodded his approval. “It sounds high-class enough. And the last name? You cannot be from an established family, but you’re more likely to be accepted if you don’t seem to be a commoner.” He transitioned to muttering as he got up to poke around one of the bookcases along the walls. “It’s sad, but the statistics speak for themselves. After all, the final round of examination is proctored by a panel of professors who carry out their responsibility to impartiality with varying levels of sincerity. Best if you claim to be from a minor noble line from outside Lenore, I think.”

A few minutes of rifling through books brought out a satisfied “Aha!” and Dryden returned with an old book, which he set on the desk. He jabbed his finger at the center of a page filled with lists of names. “Siverling. Sebastien Siverling. The line seems to have died out a few hundred years ago, so no real heirs will be around to contest your place in their family. If someone questions you, you can simply admit to being from a bastard line and pretend to be offended, or some such nonsense.”

Siobhan’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this?”

He frowned at her. “Being prepared is very important. Taking risks leads to getting caught. As a child, I tried to sneak things past my mother all the time, and she would discover my plans if I left even the slightest possibility open to her. I learned that the only way to truly get away with something is to be meticulous in both planning and execution. I don’t think humans are designed to be naturally good at subterfuge.”

She shook her head, not willing to be distracted. “You know what I mean. Why are you going to such lengths to help me? Putting yourself at risk to find me in the first place is one thing, if you really thought I was a powerful sorcerer who might be willing to help you with illegal magics. However, as soon as you learned otherwise…I’m surprised you didn’t attempt to silence me on the spot. Beyond that, you’ve left me with this artifact and the accompanying text, are, in essence, sponsoring me through the University, and have taken me into your home to help me succeed. Do you make deals like this with every hopeful sorcerer you meet? What is it that you expect from me?”

Dryden returned to his seat, staring at her in a way that made her straighten her posture defensively. “Sebastien, you seem to be under the impression that you’re special to me for some nefarious reason that I’m hiding. And you are, in that you have a somewhat unique potential to be extremely useful to me one day. However, I’m not helping you because you’re special. If that was the whole of it, I would rather avoid the hassle you represent and leave you to your own devices while hoping you muddle through somehow. No, I’m helping you because I feel like it. I told you at our first meeting. I am a philanthropist. And I can help you just because I decide I would like to.”

“That still doesn’t explain all—”

With an irritated swipe of his hand, he cut her off. “I enjoy righting wrongs. It has nothing to do with you. Don’t be so conceited. You are not so unique or valuable that I need to trick you through some elaborate ploy. I help you, you repay me through competence, and in the meantime I get the satisfaction of knowing that I can affect real change on the world, both directly and on a larger scale. I told you. There is power in people, in connections. You’re not the first I have taken a personal interest in elevating from their station in life, and you will not be the last. Please don’t misunderstand me. Focus on being accepted to the University so that you can repay me for my generosity.”

Siobhan looked away, trying to keep her embarrassment and irritation from showing. She felt unfairly chastised, and beyond that, she wasn’t sure she believed him. ‘Who is Oliver Dryden, anyway?’ Katerin had loaned her the money based on little more than his recommendation, or rather, his subtle command. He was the wealthiest person Siobhan had ever met, though perhaps not the wealthiest person in the city of Gilbratha. He was involved in some operation that could use a low-level, illegal sorcerer, rather than simply purchasing legitimate, University-certified labor. His eyes had held a spark when he spoke of affecting change on the world, the same type she had seen in her grandfather’s when he worked larger spells.

‘And why was he there last night, in person? Even if he thought I was a powerful, valuable sorcerer, shouldn’t he have had some minions available for a job like that? Or does he have so many of the local coppers in his pocket that he would have been fine even if they arrested him?’ Each question only made her more suspicious. ‘If that’s the case, then last night was just an act for my benefit, to make me trust him—him personally.’ She had too little information to judge properly, but she resolved to keep her guard up and her eyes open.

‘I am special, though,’ she thought defiantly. ‘If he’s chosen a person to be in his debt based on future utility, he’s chosen well, even if he doesn’t know it.’ She couldn’t say that aloud, however, for fear of being scoffed at. She would make sure to absorb every drop of knowledge and magic available to her in preparation for the day when the metaphorical fly in the ointment became obvious.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated! The more you guys interact with this story, the more visible it will be to other people.

Next chapter on my website https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-5-bad-first-impressions/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 5 - Bad First Impressions

Sebastien

Month 9, Day 28, Monday 4:00 p.m.

Dryden spent most of the day coaching Siobhan on high-class etiquette and mannerisms, and how to act masculine without being obtrusive. He was a harsh taskmaster, and she grew increasingly impatient as the remaining time to apply for the University entrance exams was instead filled with instruction, lectures, and quizzes to measure her retention—which was stellar, of course. Siobhan wasn’t the type to forget information, even if she failed to be gracious in receiving it.

Finally, with only a couple hours left before six, Dryden let her leave the house, urging her to “be inconspicuous—but noble. Act entitled, but not obnoxious. And remember your name.”

She left before he could continue, turning her back on his amused smirk and resisting the urge to grind her teeth in irritation. ‘How much of his nagging was an act to get a reaction out of me?’ she wondered. ‘He’s right, though. I should try to think of myself as Sebastien while I’m in this form. A thoughtless slip-up could ruin everything. I’m still myself, but when I look like this my name is Sebastien. Sebastien.’

She hurried through the gently rising streets, being very careful not to lose her way in the unfamiliar city. At least, in this part of town, she was in no danger of walking through human waste that had been dumped from the windows for lack of magic to dispose of it. No, she only had to worry about walking through animal feces. When she saw the first wanted poster with a somewhat reliable likeness of her on it, she almost tripped. The woman in the drawing wore a hood, dark hair spilling out of it, with a mean smile and something predatory in the black ink lines of her eyes.

‘Dangerous Sorceress, practitioner of Forbidden Magics. Report Any Sightings. Reward for Live Capture: One hundred gold crowns.’

Sebastien hurried on after a quick glance. ‘Only one hundred gold crowns? I would’ve been impressed by that, if I hadn’t already learned the price of the University and borrowed ten times that amount just last night. Well, it’s more than a commoner might make in four months’ wages.’

Still, she didn’t believe she was in any danger from the average citizen. People on the street looked at her, but held no suspicion in their gazes, and most, especially those lacking obvious displays of wealth, didn’t even meet her eyes.

She didn’t see any posters with her father’s likeness, and this ominous realization caused a sharp ache in her stomach. ‘Perhaps no one remembered his face well enough to draw it,’ she thought, even though she knew sophistic dreams did nothing to change reality.

As she walked north, the subtly upward-sloping streets grew wider, the buildings more ornate, and the guards and occasional patrolling copper more alert. She was breathing hard by the time she reached the base of the white cliffs that surrounded Gilbratha. They rose high and strong in the north and petered out as they curved around to the south. It was said they had been heaved up from the ground by an Archmage, hundreds of years ago.

Buildings were set into the side of the cliffs wherever there was a butte, though there was a good distance between the highest building and the top of the cliffs, where the University grounds sprawled.

A broad, winding path cut across the side of the cliff in a zig-zag pattern. The path was for those without the money or prestige for a license to use the magical lift, which was really more of a terrifying slide through one of the several glass tubes that wove their own pattern over the cliff-side. Some stopped at the groups of buildings perched on the cliff face, while others reached all the way to the ground.

She and her father had escaped through one of those tubes, but without the counterbalance of a steel weight being lifted from the ground to the top of the cliffs through one of the other tubes, they had plummeted like birds with broken wings. She’d nearly burnt through the soles of her boots trying to slow her descent. If not for the winding nature of the tubes and the spelled pit at the bottom meant to save unlucky thaumaturges from any “malfunctions,” she would have surely broken her legs and likely her back as well. Instead, they had sunk down into the mudlike ground and then bounced back up, leaving her winded and bruised, but otherwise unhurt.

They’d reached the ground soon enough after her father’s theft that the attendants had not yet received the alarm, and so they rushed over to Siobhan and her father in horror, apologizing profusely and offering free medical services. It might actually have been easier to get away if the attendants were hostile, Sebastien mused, because then they could have been hostile in return. Instead, they had politely, if forcefully, insisted they were alright, but in too much of a hurry to stay and be seen by a healer or the magical lift’s operations manager.

Again, she had to walk up manually, and there was no time to stop for breaks. By the time she reached the top, her legs were burning and trembling, and she’d acquired a faint layer of sweat despite the cool breeze. The end of the path stopped cutting back and forth and turned directly inward, burrowing into the top of the cliffs at an angle, creating tall white stone walls that ran into the ground level. This path ended at a set of imposing steel gates that marked the beginning of the University grounds.

A wrought iron plaque stretching over the top of the gates labeled it, “The Thaumaturgic University of Lenore.” The University had no specific name of its own, like a lesser arcanum might. It had no need of a name, for it was the only one of its kind. Its crest was the sky kraken, sovereign of the heavens.

The admissions center was just through the gates of the University, a small building where employees were processing lines of hopeful students.

Sebastien did her best not to act suspiciously as she walked past the guards on either side of the steel gates, wiping away sweat that the cool air hadn’t been enough to prevent. She ensured her hips did not sway as she walked, overly aware of the eyes of the people around her. It actually wasn’t so hard, with hips shaped like a man’s. ‘I am a man to them,’ she reassured herself. ‘They won’t see anything past the surface, there is no need to worry. How often have I seen a man walking past and wondered if he was really a magically disguised woman? Never, so calm down.’

She hurried to take her place at the end of the shortest line, hoping it would shrink quickly. The walk from Dryden Manor—which seemed a pretentious name for something that was little more than a huge house with a yard in the back big enough for a single horse—to the University had taken her over an hour. ‘If only Dryden had let me come sooner. Perhaps I should have paid for a carriage, or got a one-time license for the lifts.’ She had the gold to afford it now, after all, and if they turned her away because she was late, everything would be for naught.

While she waited in line, Sebastien greedily eyed the University buildings in the distance. The white cliffs were buttes, flat on top and quite expansive, bordering the north of Gilbratha and stretching around the Charybdis Gulf to the east. Freshwater from the north ran through the base of the cliff and was the source of all the manmade canals that passed through the city, which in turn powered many magic-driven factories and mills.

The University looked down on all of Gilbratha from atop those cliffs, matched in status only by Pendragon Palace—the home of the High Crown—and the mansions of the other twelve Crown families, which were cut from the cliffs stretching around to the east, beyond the Charybdis Gulf, which was a sea inlet from the south that divided the eastern Lilies from the rest of the city.

She could see the main University building—made of white stone and circular, like a coliseum, stretching up at least seven stories and covered in grand windows to let in the light. It could fit all the buildings of a small town inside itself and probably still have room for an orchard on the roof. The tops of a few towers poked up in the distance, but most of the grounds were obscured by the trees they somehow managed to grow. ‘Maybe they’ve cut out the stone and filled it with dirt,’ she thought, looking at the thick carpet of green grass that started just beyond the edge of the entrance path.

Below her, the city sloped away from this high point, growing less impressive the farther she looked. The normal citizens would always be towered over by the University and the Crowns. Sebastien doubted that was unintentional.‘Shit runs downhill.’

The line crawled along at a steady pace, and Sebastien grew more anxious as the minutes passed. ‘When the clock strikes six, will they turn away those who haven’t managed to sign up in time?’ When she was finally the second-to-next person in her line, a commotion at the gates drew her attention.

A group of wealthily dressed young people ran through, the one in the lead shouting, “Make way!” as they laughed and stumbled past the guards and into the people at the ends of the admission lines. The troublemakers comprised a couple of girls, one wearing trousers, and four young men. “Make way!” the boy in the lead said again, panting slightly, but not enough to have walked up the path for normal people. “We have an emergency admissions applicant here!” He looked to another boy, who was grinning like a puppy that had just performed a trick and now expected a treat.

The other boy frowned, examining the crowd with his distinctive pale grey, tired eyes. He flicked perfectly coifed hair that Sebastien suspected had been dyed to achieve its shiny chestnut color, and muttered something to his companion, who lost some of his boisterousness.

With only slightly more consideration for those waiting in line, the group moved toward the admissions building, bypassing everyone else.

Sebastien waited for someone to say something, or at least grumble pointedly, but though people frowned, they stepped aside and looked away when any of the group drew near.

The first boy reached Sebastien, and raised one caterpillar-like black eyebrow as she met his gaze defiantly. He didn’t stop for her, stepping forward once more and slapping a hand down on the shoulder of the boy ahead of her in line. “You don’t mind if we cut in, do you? My friend here hasn’t yet submitted his name for the examination, and we only just got back to the city in time.” He gestured to the other boy, who moved to the admissions center window as if the outcome was already a foregone conclusion.

The boy in front of her mumbled something unintelligible, and as Sebastien realized he wasn’t going to refuse, her anxiousness over the last day and astonishment at this entitled group’s actions turned to anger.

“No,” she said. She only realized how loudly she’d spoken when everyone in the courtyard turned to look at her.

“Pardon me,” the boy with the eyebrows said, giving her what he seemed to think was a charming smile. “I am afraid I don’t know your name. I am Alec Gervin and my friend”—he gestured to the boy with strange eyes—“is Damien Westbay.” Gervin’s tone obviously indicated that she should know who they were—and maybe lie down on the ground so they could walk on her to keep their shoes from getting dirty.

Behind them, the girl in the suit and trousers shifted uncomfortably and shot Sebastien what might have been an apologetic look.

It did nothing to ease Sebastien’s ire. She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think names are the important thing here. Rather, I’m more interested in common decency. Most children are taught how to wait their turn. Are you unfamiliar with the concept?” Silently, she added, ‘Just how closely related were your parents?’ But she still had enough mindfulness to keep herself from saying it aloud. Her sharp tongue always seemed to get her in trouble with those who couldn’t handle having the truth pointed out to them.

What little noise there had been immediately died away. Only then did Sebastien recall that she was supposed to avoid drawing attention to herself.

Damien Westbay pulled his friend back before the other boy could finish sputtering, stepped closer, and looked Sebastien up and down slowly. “As you have come here in ill-fitting, clearly borrowed clothes and seem to be ignorant of even the most commonly understood societal mores, let me explain more clearly. I am a Westbay, of the second Crown Family, and you would do well to graciously accept this chance to do me a favor.”

Sebastien wanted to snort, but that was crude and would make her seem less than him. “Even more reason that you should act with more decorum than this. A Crown Family member neglects to submit their application until the final hour, and is then so desperate to do so that they must push aside and trample on the commoners? A Westbay could simply approach one of the professors or heads of administration and receive a place in the examination roster, could they not? Or, perhaps, they could comport themselves with the level of class supposedly inherent to their birth and wait their turn patiently.”

A flush had crawled up Westbay’s neck and settled high on his cheeks as she spoke. His nose flared in anger and he took another step closer to her.

Just as he opened his mouth, a sharply snapped, “Damien!” cut through the air.

Both of them turned toward the speaker—a tall, severe-looking man with dark hair tied simply at the nape of his neck. He scowled down his high-bridged nose at the boy. “Desist making a fool of yourself and come with me.”

Damien Westbay deflated immediately, the flush still bright on his cheeks as he looked around at their audience and then hurried away without a second look at Sebastien. “But, Professor Lacer, I was merely defending myself!” he said indignantly.

Sebastien’s eyes met the dark gaze of the professor for a moment, and she felt the breath go out of her.

The man gripped down on Westbay’s shoulder and marched him off, ignoring the boy’s continued attempts to exonerate himself.

Alec Gervin threw her a glare and hurried after them, followed by the rest of the high-class group.

The girl in the trousers, the one who had seemed embarrassed by her companions’ actions, shot Sebastien a crooked smile as she brushed past, her eyes bright with amusement.

Sebastien barely registered it, too caught up in her thoughts. ‘Professor Lacer? Thaddeus Lacer? Youngest Master of free-casting in a century?’ He was one of the biggest reasons she’d so desperately wanted to come to the Thaumaturgic University of Lenore, specifically. He was older than the last likeness she had seen of him in an old newspaper, but his features were still recognizable.

“Step forward, young man. Sir, you are holding up the line!” The woman calling for her at the counter abruptly brought Sebastien out of her thoughts.

As she stepped forward, Sebastien looked again at the spoiled brat being escorted away by Professor Lacer. Knowing someone like him could expect to get past the entrance examinations was just one more reason she couldn’t allow herself to fail.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated! The more interaction the story gets, the more visible it will be to new readers.

Next chapter on my website https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-6-the-danger-of-too-little-information/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 6 - The Danger of too Little Information

Oliver

Month 9, Day 28, Monday 4:00 p.m.

Oliver watched the young man—really an intriguing young woman—walk away in one of his suits. It was too big for her, but she still wore that air of unselfconscious confidence that thaumaturges sometimes absorbed. He theorized it had something to do with knowing deep down that one could enforce their will on the world and the world would have to bow.

He wondered if any studies had been done on it. Was the confidence from experience, from knowing that one could lift their thumb and blot out the sun? Or, perhaps, was it inherent, and only those with the most forceful personalities managed to become powerful thaumaturges?

He looked up at the sun, which would sink beneath the western lip of the white cliffs in a couple hours, throwing a shadow over the entire city. It was still too early for the Night Market to open.

He turned and walked back to his study, turning his thoughts to work. His responsibilities never ended. The task he had set himself was gargantuan, and would be the labor of years, if not decades.

He sat at his desk, wondering if he should search out a sorcerer talented in decryption for the book. He decided against it. Better to give it some time before making any moves that someone could connect with the theft, so that nothing could lead back to him. Siobhan would turn her own energy toward deciphering the book, if what he’d walked in on that morning was any indication. Perhaps she would even succeed.

That would tie things up tidily. When he’d learned about the theft, he’d been under the impression that she was an accomplished sorcerer. The wary but confident way she held herself hadn’t disabused him of that notion, till she explained her circumstances. She cut an imposing figure for a woman, and her defined cheekbones, skin tone, and almost-black eyes revealed her as a descendant of the People, which only added to the impression of danger and competence.

His thoughts sidetracked for a while as he wondered if it wasn’t somewhat bigoted of a race to name themselves the people. What was everyone else, if not also people? Perhaps it was intentional. Diminutizing and mentally segregating “others” from “self” made certain unpleasant or morally reprehensible things easier, and the history of humanity was filled with just as much fighting against each other as fighting against non-humans. Perhaps this conflict-hungry nature was what had allowed such an originally magically weak species to gain the influence and dominion they now enjoyed.

Oliver settled into his paperwork, making notes, reading Katerin’s reports on their various ventures, both legal and illegal, and authorizing expenditures. Always, it seemed, there was too much to do and too few resources. The Verdant Stag, the inn he’d started as a front for other illegal ventures and a face for his organization, was doing well, but it wasn’t enough.

He was hemorrhaging money faster than he could replace it, and his personal fortune wouldn’t last forever. He may have been accused of charitable leanings, but he knew that one man couldn’t fund a revolution alone. His goal demanded he build an empire of business.

He and Katerin needed more competent, educated employees to handle the things they had no time for. In the areas of Gilbratha he was operating in—the poor areas—that was hard to find, though he had more applicants for unskilled labor than he could possibly hire. He made a note to look up people who had been denied admittance to the University. Those people would know how to read, write, and do at least basic math.

Next he accepted a party invitation from one of the local Crown families. Connections were important, and much of politics was done in the drawing room rather than offices or formal conference rooms. Even if progress toward his goals was too slow to use only the influence he could gain among the elite, they were still powerful, and he couldn’t afford to have them all turn against him.

He picked up the report Katerin had sent him on his latest venture, an old warehouse in the poor part of the city. He hoped to turn it into a miniature farm that could grow large amounts of food in a compact space, year-round. Small-scale food growth was a grey area in the city law, and thus far unregulated, allowing him to make real changes to the local economy.

He doubted his efforts would go unnoticed or unimpeded once those in power realized what he was doing, but he would fight that battle when the time came. If he could get some common magical plant varieties to grow, hidden among the other crops, it would solve part of his money problem as well. He signed off on Katerin’s request to hire workers for the warehouse and checked the time.

Oliver left his study, grabbed his cloak, and slipped a battle wand and the mask he used during his more dangerous or blatantly illegal ventures into a pocket. He left through the back entrance, walked quickly to the small stable at the end of his equally small bit of property, and saddled his erythrean horse, Elmira. Despite its magical heritage and ridiculous price, an erythrean didn’t look much different from a normal horse to the layman, and he’d chosen this one from his breeding business specifically for her unremarkable appearance. Finally, he kicked up into the saddle and rode out at a sedate pace.

When he’d passed into the poorer part of the city, but not yet reached the Mires, he guided Elmira into an alley. After assuring himself he wasn’t being watched, Oliver turned his cloak inside-out, changing its color from grey to black, and slipped the mask on.

He wasn’t trained to pick out a tail, but he had noticed nothing suspicious since he left his house, and if there was chatter about the coppers investigating the Verdant Stag or his public persona, one of the coppers he’d bribed should alert him. Still, it was best to be cautious about these things. It was too soon for Oliver Dryden to be a known criminal lord, and while visiting the Night Market wasn’t illegal, purchasing unlicensed magical services was, and either would cast suspicion on him.

He got a few more looks after exiting the alley on the other side, mostly for the unsettling mask, but he felt comfortable in his anonymity.

The Night Market was firmly in the Mires. A young lookout manned each entrance, suspiciously watching all who entered. Each child stood ready to blow their whistle and race away if the coppers or other obvious trouble walked through.

This generally wasn’t necessary, however. Oliver wasn’t the only one who had a couple coppers in his pocket, and usually a raid would be announced with enough advance warning for anyone important to escape or hide their illegal activities before being inspected.

The market encompassed a few narrow streets filled with small shops, which put up at least a front of legality. Lining the streets were a plethora of open-air stalls and booths, most of which had no license to operate, and would pack up and run or wheel away if the coppers came. Light crystals were mounted above the shop doors, as it was too poor an area for the city to provide streetlamps. The shops’ window displays were innocuous, even unappealing, and none of the doors stood open to welcome customers after twilight hit.

Oliver got off Elmira and walked beside her to the hitching post closest to the tavern where he was to meet his contact, The Bitter Phoenix. He tossed a coin to the attendant. The young man startled and bowed low when he tried to meet Oliver’s eyes through the holes of his mask. The boy would feed the creature and make sure she wasn’t stolen or bothered, but as a precaution Oliver still had some of Elmira’s hair in a locket at home, ready to be used in a scrying spell.

The tavern was already doing good business when he entered, and under the cover of his mask, Oliver felt free to grimace at the heavy smoke clogging the air. The Verdant Stag had an air-filtering artifact for that very purpose, as he couldn’t stand the headache-inducing stench.

Oliver went to the bar and ordered a simple ale. When the bartender set the tankard in front of him, he paid with a few silvers in place of copper, effectively giving a tip worth about ten times the price of the ale.

The bartender adroitly scooped up the coins, his eyes flicking over Oliver’s mask and fine clothing. “You’re lookin’ a bit morose, my friend. Care to tell your story to old Horace, here? Can’t promise I can help, but I find a listenin’ ear always eases the soul a bit.”

There was no way Horace could see Oliver’s expression, and he certainly wasn’t drooping sadly. It was an opening, a lead-in for Oliver to make a request in exchange for the pseudo-bribe.

Oliver gripped the tankard’s handle. “Well, Horace, I keep having this dream that I’m searching for a crystal ball, and everyone else but me seems to know where it is. I try to ask them, but they all give me nonsensical answers, and I wake up just wishing I could get someone to tell me the truth.”

Horace nodded, as if Oliver’s words made perfect sense. He gestured to a door beside the bar, which a thickly muscled man stood guarding, arms crossed. “We have a crystal ball. Through the den, at the other end of the hall. Password’s ‘blood moon.’”

With a nod, Oliver stood, leaving the ale untouched. The muscled doorman stepped aside to let him into the room beyond, which was bigger than the main area of the tavern.

Within, people were gathered around several small gaming tables, some gambling, others chattering manically, seeming hardly to notice the games. A couple people had tucked themselves away in darkened corners and were scribbling frantically on parchment. What they all had in common were the wide, glassy eyes and expressions of complete focus.

Oliver was disheartened, but not surprised, to see the occasional vial of shimmering silver powder lying around.

Quintessence of quicksilver, the powder of a potion boiled down into a solid and then crushed, temporarily frenzied the mind. It could make you smarter and grant a liquid creativity that many found enthralling. Some said it felt like approaching divinity.

It was addictive, both physically and emotionally, from the desire for more of that feeling. People told stories about those who had accomplished amazing feats of precise, exhaustive planning or brilliant improvisation under the inspiration of the dust. However, with the accompanying lowered inhibitions, people also got themselves into ridiculous trouble by being too bold to realize they still weren’t smart enough to avoid consequences.

The effects of a single dose lasted for about six hours on those who hadn’t built up a tolerance. Of course, users crashed into a dazed stupor for the next day or two after those effects wore off, and long-term users lost their ability to focus and displayed various types of memory problems, becoming dependent on the quicksilver just to function normally.

Oliver walked past it all with barely a moment of hesitation, ignoring the shrewd gazes of those who noticed his passing. Addictions like this were a disease borne of despair and desperation. When there was no hope for a better future, no opportunity to leave the darkness of your life in the past, there was little argument for avoiding any momentary pleasure. Especially when it might genuinely help to solve your problems in the short term. He doubted he could eradicate the use of such substances completely, but perhaps he could fix the environment that led people to such choices.

At the door on the far side of the room, he gave the password, and again the door guard let him through, this time into a quiet, thankfully smokeless hallway.

He knocked on the door at the end of it, paused briefly, then entered a small room with a couple chairs sitting in front of an empty desk. A door to the side of this waiting area led to a large office, which was filled with cabinets and a shelf that held not only a crystal ball, but also a deck of cards and a few other items Oliver recognized as useful in divination.

But what he had come for was the man sitting behind the desk in the center of all that.

The man in the adjoining room lifted his balding head from the papers stacked on his desk, and pushed up his spectacles in order to look Oliver up and down. His expression didn’t change when he saw the mask, though if he was any good at his job he already knew who Oliver was. The man waved at him impatiently, motioning to one of the chairs in front of Oliver. “Sit, sit. My secretary is out at the moment.”

Oliver complied, leaning back comfortably as he waited.

After a couple minutes, Gilbratha’s premier information broker shuffled away the report he had been reading and came out into the waiting room, plopping down behind the smaller secretary’s desk. He leaned back and took off his spectacles. “What can I do for you today, Lord Stag?”

Without preamble, Oliver replied, “Someone is smuggling magical goods into the city.” He knew this because the Crowns heavily taxed certain magical components and restricted the sale of others, and some components were illegal altogether. Yet those things were being sold by the underground community, and not just the restricted items, but the illegal ones as well. He knew he could find proof at the Night Market that very moment, were he to go out and search.

The broker leaned back, resting folded hands on his potbelly with a slight smile. “And?”

“I’m looking for some supplies. I have an interest in herbology, you see. I need certain seeds and cuttings for my garden.”

The man let out a short chuckle. “Seeds and cuttings? You’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

Oliver nodded. “Quite serious. Can you connect me to someone who can help with that?”

The man stared at him for a few moments, then sat forward. “I believe I can. Is a meeting all you require?”

“Yes.” Oliver let a small smile creep into his voice. “I’m sorry I cannot allow you to showcase your impressive services in some more thorough way.”

The information broker chuckled. “I find repeat customers make up most of my clientele. I’m sure I’ll have the chance to show off at some other time. A runner will drop off the meeting information in a week. Send three hundred gold when you get it. Be aware, resources like this can be…coveted.”

Oliver was already dealing with the Morrows, who didn’t appreciate his incursion into a few dozen city blocks of their territory, poor as it was. He doubted the supplies to cultivate a few magical plants would make a difference. Of course, he would’ve liked to consume all incoming smuggling operations whole, but the Verdant Stag still lacked the resources for that.

He gave the information dealer a shallow nod. “I understand.”

“Good. Is that all you need from me today?” When Oliver nodded again, the man put his spectacles back on and shooed him away. “Alright. Off you go, then. I’m busy. This data won’t read and organize itself.”

Oliver held back a chuckle, but left without delay, striding quickly back down the hallway and through the den of quicksilver users.

As he passed through, a man looked up from the table where he had been scribbling in a leather-bound journal. His eyes flicked over Oliver from head to toe, and recognition sparked within them.

Oliver didn’t walk any faster, didn’t turn his head toward the other man in acknowledgment. If the man had recognized him, it was as the leader of the Stags, as the mask itself. Not Oliver Dryden. He left the bar and retrieved Elmira, then rode to the Verdant Stag.

He traded paperwork and reports with Katerin, who worked even more than he did despite the burden of raising her young nephew, and left again.

He was just exiting Stag territory when a group of people waiting in an alley stepped out in front of him.

He slowed Elmira.

They spread out, and a couple more came up behind him.

“Somehow, I doubt this meeting is coincidental,” he said, one hand falling to the battle wand in his cloak pocket. The light from the streetlamps was enough for him to make out the telltale signs of the Morrow gang on his ambushers—strips of red cloth tied around their arms, red bandannas over a couple of their heads, and the blood-red M stained into some of their shirts, over the heart.

One of the men crossed his arms over his chest and threw back his shoulders to make himself seem more imposing. “No, just like how it weren’t a coincidence that this used to be Morrow territory, and now I’m seeing green antlers all over the place, and men patrolling around telling me where I can and can’t do business while I’m looking down the wrong end—”

Oliver didn’t wait for him to finish. This was never going to end with friendly negotiation, and waiting for them to be ready to attack only gave him worse odds of walking away. He threw himself off Elmira, his right hand pulling the wand out of his pocket and raising it high. In the same motion, he flipped around and slapped her on the rump as hard as he could with the left. As soon as the creature began to run, he closed his eyes and his thumb pressed down on the switch of the wand. Light exploded across his closed eyelids like a flower blooming red.

Screams came from all around as his attackers responded to the blinding flash of light. It wouldn’t stop them for long, but he only needed a few moments.

He lowered his hand, switched the wand’s output to an overpowered concussive blast, and was firing at one of the assailants to his right even as he ran forward to attack another. The spell from the wand slammed the man across the street and into the side of the building to their right.

He might not die, but he would likely need medical attention. A hit like that was similar to being slammed by a rampaging troll, and he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

A punch to the throat sent the man in front of Oliver keeling over.

Elmira had knocked another man to the ground as she ran past, and he pivoted, slamming a foot down into the side of that man’s knee before he could stand up.

The joint popped sideways, and the man went down again.

Two of the thugs rushed him, one from the left and one from behind.

He took out the one to his left with the battle wand’s concussive blast, but the one behind managed to tackle him around the waist hard enough to knock his breath out, and when they fell to the ground the final ambusher grabbed Oliver’s arm and wrested the wand from it.

The man who had tackled Oliver punched him in the kidney, hard enough to send pain arcing all the way up his spine.

Oliver slammed his left elbow repeatedly into the junction between the man’s neck and shoulder, and the grip around his waist slackened, allowing him to flip his leg up, over, and around, using the leverage to reverse their positions.

The other man, the one who had grabbed his arm and ripped the wand from it, was trying to break Oliver’s arm by bending it backward at the elbow joint, so Oliver punched him in the back of the neck. The man collapsed, and Oliver yanked his arm free.

Ignoring the pain at his elbow, he scrambled away, kicking at the remaining assailant, who was scrabbling at Oliver’s clothes in an effort to pull him back into a grapple. Oliver grabbed for his wand. His fingers, clumsy with adrenaline, fumbled around the handle, and he must have moved the embedded controls, because when he swung the wand around toward the man grabbing at his legs, a red bolt shot out instead of the foggy concussive blast.

It didn’t matter. The stunning spell hit the final gang member, sizzling at the spot of impact, and the man collapsed.

Oliver kicked himself loose of the man’s limp arms, then stumbled to his feet and spun about wildly as he searched out more attackers. He shot the man whose knee he had kicked, who was now rocking on the ground and howling agonizingly, with another stunning spell, and for good measure did the same to the others as well.

The street was completely empty, and any lights that had shone from the windows around had been doused shortly after the fighting started.

It took a few seconds of panting and looking around for Oliver to trust that it was over. His fingers shaking slightly, he checked to make sure his mask was still on, and then he made sure he wasn’t bleeding anywhere. The coppers likely wouldn’t bother to investigate violence between rival gangs, but he couldn’t take the chance of leaving some piece of himself to be used or traced.

He searched the downed Morrow gang members, rifling through their pockets. What he was looking for, he didn’t know, but it would have felt a little strange to just leave them there after they’d ambushed him like that. He didn’t find much. A few silver, and one mostly empty vial of metallic dust. The man who’d carried it was the same one who had recognized him back in the quicksilver den, he realized belatedly.

Disgusted, he poured the substance out onto the ground, dropping the vial and leaving his attackers behind as he limped after Elmira, who was waiting for him a few blocks away. He very much doubted the ambush had been intentionally prearranged, and likely was not even sanctioned by the Morrows’ leader.

The man at the information broker’s bar had recognized him, and, with an overabundance of confidence from the euphoria of the quintessence of quicksilver, had gathered a few fellows to wait in ambush, hoping to take back something they felt like he had stolen from them.

Carefully, already beginning to hurt as the adrenaline from the fight wore off, he remounted the erythrean and turned back toward the Verdant Stag. He had to check in with Katerin and make sure everything was okay—that this wasn’t a multi-pronged attack he was underestimating.

It surprised her to see him again, and her lips drew into a snarl as he recounted his little surprise. “This will not end here,” she said. “It can’t. These things escalate, it’s how it works. It was harassment before, trying to drain our funds and tarnish our name, but now?”

“I know. Even so, that’s out of our control. I’m approving your request to recharge those old battle wands you managed to get. Arm our patrol and security team. Hire a few more reliable people, too, if you can. Quality over quantity, of course. I have no desire for thugs running around my territory, as dangerous to the citizens as they are to our enemies. Stock up on healing potions, too, and put a healer on retainer.”

When they’d finished talking, Oliver left again, his body protesting with his horse’s every jarring step. He didn’t bother to take any potions or use salves for his injuries. They barely worked on him anyway.

It was late into the night by the time he’d returned home and got the horse settled. The servants had left long ago.

The girl—Sebastien in this form, he reminded himself—was the only one there. She opened her door when he reached the top of the stairs, watching him with those dark, unsettling eyes. He had noticed already that sometimes, when she withdrew into the company of her own thoughts, her expression relaxed, yet failed to give any hint of actual peace, and there was the sense of something swimming in the depths of her gaze, dark and aware. Then she would turn that gaze back to reality, and whatever hint of what lay beneath would be hidden under fragile pride and the blaze of a mind that devoured knowledge like a wildfire.

He did his best not to limp, though only the threat of violence could have made him move quickly. “How did it go?”

“I have two weeks until the exams, and another two weeks after that until classes start.”

“You may stay here until then,” he said. “I don’t have any books on magic in this house, so if you require study aids, you will have to seek them elsewhere. There is a bookstore, not far. You can go tomorrow.”

Sebastien frowned. “What I don’t understand is, how are people supposed to study for the exams if you must already be certified by the University to learn, teach, or practice magic?”

Oliver gave her a sardonic smile. “Sebastien, those texts contain little magical instruction, and the tutors you can hire may be an even worse investment of your gold. They’ll teach you how to read, write, and do basic mathematics, as well as help you memorize rudimentary principles of natural or sympathetic science. I believe the tutoring center has some useless classes on decorum and dancing as well. You will find deeper learning elusive without delving into the less legitimate side of this city. However, the examination doesn’t expect you to be competent in magic. It simply requires you to have a wide range of basic understanding and an able, agile mind. Money, background, and connections don’t hurt, either.”

She made a small grimace of disgust.

He noted it with pleasure. Perhaps Siobhan would truly help with his plans, if he hadn’t been mistaken in his judgment of her. Magic always had a cost, but it also allowed the resourceful to accomplish feats that the natural sciences and the common man could only dream of matching, especially with the current state of the world. Once Oliver had succeeded, that would change, of course.

He would have Katerin call in the first repayment of the girl’s debt soon—a favor. Something charitable, to help disarm her. He could tell she was suspicious. But he always played the long game.

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Chapter 7 - Filial Anxiety

Sebastien

Month 9, Day 28, Monday 6:00 p.m.

She filled out the forms the woman handed her with Sebastien Siverling’s information. She still had trouble thinking of it as her own. When Sebastien finished writing, the woman handed her a few scrolls and a wooden token engraved with a date and time a couple weeks in the future.

With the paperwork out of the way, the attendant took a deep breath and began what seemed like a well-rehearsed spiel. “Return with the token at the stated time. Do not lose it, as you will need it to take the examination.” She pointed to one of the scrolls. “These are the topics you will be tested on. The examinations start with an extensive written test. Those who pass will go on to the oral examination, which is administered by a panel of professors. Should you be accepted, tuition is to be paid immediately. If we do not receive your tuition at least ten days before classes start, your acceptance will be rescinded. The base cost of admission is three hundred gold crowns. Each class you take, minimum four and up to seven, is an additional fifty gold crowns. The price of admission includes mandatory room and board.”

When Sebastien continued to stare at her expectantly, the woman gave a dismissive hand wave and concluded, “All the information you need is written in the scrolls.”

Sebastien cleared her throat, trying to suppress her apprehension. “Is there a way for me to access the library or some other resource that will help me study?”

The woman blinked at her tiredly. “The library and other University resources are only available to students, faculty, and specific alumni. If you wish to study, you can purchase texts or hire University-certified tutors in the city.”

Conscious of the impatient people standing in line behind her and the guards keeping watch on the admissions center, Sebastien stepped aside. She opened the scroll with the list of topics she would be tested on, her eyes narrowing as they flicked down the list. Luckily, her grandfather had required her to gain a basic education, but there were still a handful of topics she didn’t feel comfortable in, such as “natural alchemical conversions” or “mathematic principles of array design.” And what was “practical solutions to abstractly depicted problems?”

She perfunctorily looked over the rest of the scrolls, then tucked everything securely into her pockets. ‘Am I very far behind, then? I know insisting on such a large loan wasn’t for my benefit, but to ensure I was more indebted to Katerin and Dryden. But I’m glad I have the extra gold. How does a common family afford to educate their child enough to pass in the first place, especially when they must also have saved enough to pay for tuition?’ She smiled wryly to herself. ‘Maybe I’m not the only one borrowing from loan-sharks for this. Of course, getting a sponsor to pay your way after already having proof of admittance might be easier.’

The University boasted about their inclusive, nondiscriminatory policy. They claimed a willingness to admit anyone who could pass the test and either pay the way or get a sponsor to do so for them, but she wondered how much of that was simply propaganda.

When she arrived back at Dryden Manor, she found he’d gone out. The servants invited her to eat in the kitchen with them rather than at the huge empty table in the dining hall. At first, the others were a little awkward around her, but she pulled out a technique she’d learned, ironically, from her father, and made a few bad jokes. They laughed at her, rather than with any amusement at the jokes, and once they saw that she’d meant them to do so, everyone relaxed.

Once they felt free, she had to dodge their friendly curiosity about her connection to their employer. “I’m here for the University admissions exam. Mr. Dryden graciously offered to let me stay the night rather than sleep in an inn when we met yesterday.”

She tried to help clean up afterward, but the cook and kitchen maid shooed her out with scandalized bows and a lot of hand-flapping. “What would Mr. Dryden think, if he knew we let his guest do our work for us? We’ll just finish up here and then head home, Mr. Siverling, please don’t worry. Go back to your room and study, and just ring the bell in the hall if you need anything before we go.”

Sebastien tried to do just that, reading more carefully through the admissions information, then reviewing the magic notes in her own grimoire, though she knew everything in it by heart already.

She slipped back into Dryden’s study for the theoretical books on magic she’d noticed before. While interesting, they were abstract and advanced, and she doubted how relevant they would be to any of the topics on the exam. Still, she enjoyed a couple hours skimming through the more interesting ones.

She’d gone back to her room by the time Dryden finally returned. He was walking stiffly, like the cold outside had seeped into his bones. Trying and failing to hide his discomfort, Dryden distracted her by offering to let her stay in his house until the start of term, which she tacitly accepted despite the discomfort it brought her.

That night, she cast her dreamless sleep spell around the pillow, using a tincture of strong alcohol and distilled herb oils to draw the spell array, which was invisible once it evaporated and perfectly comfortable to sleep on. She’d reworked and refined this spell extensively to find something that actually worked to suppress her nightmares. She pushed as much power as she could into it, focusing on the sweet relief of real rest.

Her last waking thought was a vague question about her father. ‘Where is he, after all this?’

Sebastien ate breakfast with Dryden, who turned out to be somewhat amusing company when not trying to coerce her into indebting herself to a criminal organization or lecturing her about how to act like an entitled rich man. He was well-studied, and had traveled through other countries, seen other cultures and magics.

While outwardly she laughed at his retelling of a mishap involving a household brownie, a woman much too old to be interested in Dryden, and her ungelded stallion, internally she wondered again why he was helping her.

Even if he wasn’t from one of the Crown families and thus without their influence, he had money at least, and enough intelligence to practice magic. ‘Why does he need me? Why wait for me outside the inn and convince Katerin to loan me such a large amount? What dirty work does he require that he can’t handle with his current means?’ Her sole comfort came from her ability to refuse any morally objectionable favors, but that restriction still left many uncomfortable possibilities open.

After again ensuring her transformation into Sebastien showed no signs of wearing off, she left to the bookstore. It was attached to a University-certified tutoring center, and, as Dryden had warned her, didn’t have texts about actual magic, only more background information about the world and the sciences that a thaumaturge would find useful when practicing. Alone, however, the books offered her nothing more than trivial knowledge.

Still, she was a sorceress, and any knowledge that could improve her magic, either directly or indirectly, was valuable. She chose an armload of books and went to the counter to pay. Sebastien was just wondering if there was a market where she could pick up magical components—without needing a University certification—when a copy of her own wanted poster caught her eye again.

It was pinned up on a board with various other notifications, advertisements, and wanted posters. She put it out of her mind as she paid, inwardly cringing at the cost—thirty gold crowns would have been enough to buy grain for her father and her to eat for a year in any of the smaller villages they’d stayed in—but as she made to leave the store, the chatter of two young men next to the bulletin board caught her ear.

“You heard they caught the other one?”

Sebastien froze.

“No! What happened?”

She shuffled the books around in her arms to make her eavesdropping less obvious.

“Found him in a brothel, apparently! The audacity!” The grin in the boy’s voice was obvious. “I wonder if the woman is holed up somewhere in the city, too.”

His companion chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind the girl coming to me for a night of ‘protection,’ if she looks anything like the poster. Of course, the coppers would be there to escort her away in the morning.”

“That’s just foolishness. You’ve no idea what forbidden magics she might need spell components for. I heard some spells use cow testicles and that sort of thing. Who knows, she might prefer to take those components from a human male instead?”

His companion burst into shocked guffaws, and when Sebastien realized they wouldn’t be revealing anything more about her father, she left the shop. She was breathing hard.

Sebastien stalked through the streets blindly, consumed by her thoughts. Her father had been captured, and must be in the jail now. ‘But what does that mean? They’ll be looking for me—with fervor—but he couldn’t lead them to me even if he wanted, since he doesn’t know where I am or even what I look like now.’

She stopped in her tracks as a horrible thought hit her. ‘What if they already know what I look like now? They had the book before me. Could they not have extracted the transmuting artifact and studied its effects before the expedition made it back to the University?’ She started walking again, faster this time, as the feeling of being hunted closed in on her.‘Why didn’t I consider this possibility before?’ She caught sight of her wanted poster on another street corner, and, ironically, it calmed her.

‘If they knew what my other form looked like, wouldn’t they have created a poster for it as well? The spell array was drawn on the inside of the leather cover, and even I almost missed it. If they had removed the artifact, why would they have replaced it within the space-bending spell?’ Re-concealing the artifact may not have even been possible. She hadn’t been able to do so. ‘There is no need to create imaginary dangers when plenty of real ones hound me,’ she reassured herself.

She found Dryden in his study as soon as she returned. “They’ve caught my father,” she said succinctly.

He looked up from the papers on the desk in front of him, blinking a few times. “Is this a problem?”

His response deflated her momentarily, but she rallied. “Yes! This may be his own fault, but without the book to return to them, he might be in danger. They must know I have the book and that I’m his daughter. What if they torture him for information he doesn’t have? What if they decide to execute him as a message to me?” She found herself pacing before Dryden’s desk. “I’m angry at him, but I don’t wish him to come to harm. I must ensure he’s safe. Beyond any sentiment I feel, he may have information or insight into their investigation that would be useful, and thus be a danger to me.” It was a weak excuse, she knew.

Dryden knew it, too. “He doesn’t know where you are or have any way to track you, does he? He doesn’t even know what you look like. The safest thing is to leave him be and let them realize his worthlessness. And, say you do speak with him and find he is not well-treated. What, then? Will you allow him to jeopardize your future once again as you attempt to break him free?”

He gave her a stern look. “Calm yourself, Sebastien. It’s very unlikely they will sentence him to death. More likely, he’ll be held for a while and then condemned to servitude in the mines until his debt is repaid. If you wish, once you’re educated and have received your license to practice, you may even buy the debt and have him freed. This isn’t as serious as you believe. Does he not deserve some punishment for what he’s done? If he’d escaped instead of you, it would be you in Harrow Hill Penitentiary, your future thrown away on a greedy whim.”

The use of her new name lent credence to Dryden’s argument, despite the lack of respect he showed by using her first name so familiarly. ‘He’s right. About all of it. Even if Father were to be executed, it would be his own fault. Ironically, it’s only now, when he’s ruined my life, that I’m free of him. And yet…and yet, I still feel an obligation.’

“You’re right,” she said aloud. “Nevertheless, I still want to contact him. Is there any way for me to do so?”

Dryden stared at her silently for a while, then got up and moved to the corner table where he kept his alcohol in fancy crystal bottles. He poured himself a small glass of brown liquid, took a sip, and swirled it around in his mouth while gazing out the window—ignoring her. Finally, he turned back to her. “Do you have a spell that will allow you to sneak in, or perhaps one to communicate with him remotely?”

She grimaced, shaking her head in the negative.

“No matter. Such a spell likely wouldn’t work. The Harrow Hill Penitentiary is warded against many spells, and the high-security wing doubly so. I doubt they would place him in the lesser wings, with what’s at stake. You’d need a high-level security token to enter the wing, as well as some way to get past the guards. It’s not a simple thing.”

“Is it impossible, then? Perhaps I can bribe one of the guards? I have a thousand gold, after all.”

He snorted. “If you wished to see someone in the lowest wing’s debtor’s prison, perhaps. Attempt to bribe a guard of the high-security wing, and you will gain the attention of the second Crown Family and their coppers. Hardly what you want bearing down upon you right now.” He took another slow drink and then added, “However.”

She remained silent as she waited for him to continue, her fingers absently reaching for her Conduit within one of the borrowed suit’s many pockets.

Finally, he spoke. “There may be someone with the skills and knowledge to do what you require. A messenger spell might not be detected in the same way a communication spell would be, if done the right way. The problem is, this person isn’t officially certified to practice magics for either personal or commercial reasons, and they don’t sell their expertise lightly.”

‘So I’ll be complicit in yet another crime. It doesn’t change much. I simply have to avoid being caught.’ “Can this person be trusted to be discreet?”

“Yes, but let me be clear,” Dryden said, an edge to his voice. “They are not affiliated with me, or with the Verdant Stag’s people, in any way. If someone else were to go to this person asking for help to find out who breached Harrow Hill’s security, this person wouldn’t reveal your involvement outright, but they would sell their magical detection services to find you without hesitation. They have a code of honor, which is necessary when working with the people who need such services, but you are not buying loyalty.”

Sebastien frowned. “Well…why not? If I offered this person coin to refuse to help anyone acting against my interests, their honor would protect me, even if there is no true loyalty, correct?”

He snorted. “You couldn’t afford to purchase such a thing.”

She didn’t question him. He surely knew this thaumaturge’s prices better than she did. Besides, the majority of her money would be needed for the University’s fees. She could not, would not squander it. “Can you introduce me?”

He sighed deeply, but nodded. “We’ll leave when the sun begins to set. I hope you don’t regret this, Siobhan.”

She gave him a mirthless smile. “My name is Sebastien, remember.”

“Well, we will need to change that, too. Sebastien cannot be associated with such an unsavory character.”

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-8-lino-wharton-messenger/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 8 - Lino-Wharton Messenger

Siobhan

Month 9, Day 29, Tuesday 9:00 p.m.

Siobhan changed back into her own body and her old clothes, which had been the nicest ones she owned but now sported the stains and rips of her harried flight from the coppers.

Dryden took one look at her and insisted she update her wardrobe before he was seen with her in public. When she protested, he reminded her that her wanted poster showed her wearing a ratty, hooded cloak, with wild hair and a crazed look in her eyes, and a change of ambiance might allow her to hide in plain sight. As if divining her next argument, he assured her that she need not visit a seamstress. He had some spare female clothing in one of the mansion’s many guest bedrooms.

When he brought the clothing to her—a black, slim-cut dress suit with a pencil skirt and crimson cloak—she made the mistake of asking whose it was.

He gave her a pointed look. “It belongs to a previous acquaintance of mine. She stayed the night and left these behind as an excuse to return again, but her gambit failed.”

Siobhan stared blankly for a moment, then gasped in sudden realization, her embarrassment making it impossible to look him in the eye. An imagined scene with Dryden and the woman who had worn such bold clothing flashed through her mind, and she quickly gave herself a mental shake to cast the scene away.

“I assure you, she won’t miss these. Consider them yours.”

That was how Siobhan found herself walking with Dryden through the gloomy streets of the seedier part of the city, wearing a stylish outfit that was a little too expensive for her to be comfortable in.

She was on edge, waiting for every person they passed to point an accusing finger at her or scurry off to find the nearest copper, but no one seemed to recognize her. The hood of the cloak obscured her hair and her features from the light of the streetlamps, anyway. No one without some type of diviner’s sight or natural predilection to the dark, like a vampire or hag, could see her face.

Dryden was also wearing a hood. He’d reached into his pockets when they set out, but hesitated without retrieving anything. “I usually wear a mask for this sort of thing, but that could actually be more attention-drawing in the current circumstances. Like this, maybe we can just be a man and a woman walking together.”

Dryden led her on a circuitous route through the city, and she realized belatedly, when they actually doubled back at one point, that he was searching for tails. She wasn’t sure if that should frighten or reassure her, but he seemed to think they were safe. Finally, they arrived at a housing district where people lived atop each other in small, two-story apartments strung together in long rows.

Siobhan grimaced at the idea of living so close together with other families. ‘No space, no privacy.’ They walked up a rickety set of stairs that she hoped were stabilized with magic, because otherwise they seemed on the verge of collapse.

He gingerly tapped the door-knocker against its decorative metal base, which was shaped like a growling lion’s head.

She understood his hesitance when the lion shifted, glaring at the both of them and baring its teeth. After a tense moment, the door let out a “click” and the lion froze.

Dryden turned the handle and stepped through ahead of her, looking around warily before moving aside so she could follow.

Contrary to her expectations, the interior was entirely mundane.

A tall, dark-skinned woman with long, curly hair bound away from her face in a loose braid walked out of the attached, unremarkable kitchen, sipping a cup of tea. She seemed unsurprised to see them and equally uninterested in their presence. “Oliver. What do you want?”

Siobhan noted the use of his first name. ‘Perhaps that’s how he introduces himself to people in the criminal world?’

Dryden gave her a flirtatious grin. “Hello, Liza. We have need of your services.”

Liza gave him a look as dry as the Tataroc Desert, standing with one hip cocked. “Don’t be a pedant. What is it exactly that you want of me?”

“My father is in jail,” Siobhan said. “I want to communicate with him. I heard you might be able to help with that.”

Liza turned her gaze on Siobhan, humming thoughtfully. “Harrow Hill Penitentiary. High-security wing?” Before Siobhan could answer, she waved her hand dismissively and continued. “Of course it is, why else would you be coming to me? Do you have gold?”

Siobhan nodded, taking out the coin pouch she had brought. Fifty gold. It was an exorbitant amount, and it had shocked her when Dryden gave her an estimate of what the woman’s services would cost. She could pay for an entire University class with that amount, or live luxuriously off it for a couple months if she left Gilbratha. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use all of it.

Liza eyed the pouch dubiously. “Do you want him to be able to communicate back to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know exactly where he is being held?”

Siobhan suppressed a grimace. “I don’t.”

The woman sighed. “Well, we can do a prerequisite homing spell if you have some of his hair or something like that. The messenger can use it to find him.”

Siobhan’s grimace slipped out. Her grandfather had bludgeoned her into the habit of disposing of any hair, blood, or nail clippings, even saliva, precisely so no one could use them in this type of spell. She had none.

Liza threw her hands in the air, spilling some of her tea. “I am not a miracle worker! If you can find a sorcerer who knows your father well enough to help me with a homing spell, I might be able to make it work. However, this will not be cheap. Seventy gold crowns.”

Siobhan almost choked.

Dryden’s eyebrows rose. “Is that not a bit excessive, Liza? It’s only a messenger spell.”

The woman scowled at them while taking another sip of tea. “It is a hazard fee. For possible Will-strain, and the cost of blood magic. I have to supplement the Will of a sorcerer trying to create a sympathetic mnemonic link and tie it into a tracking spell, as well as augment a messenger skilled enough to use said tracker while avoiding detection by the guards and wards. It requires too much energy, so I will also have to use a beast core, if you want the messenger to be viable for the standard six hours. Seventy gold.”

“I can create the mnemonic link if you show me how,” Siobhan said. “And I won’t need you to supplement my Will while I do so. I can also assist you with channeling the power for the rest of the spell. I don’t need the messenger to last very long, two hours at most. Forty gold.”

“Even if you can keep up, though I doubt you can channel more than a few dozen thaums, if that…” Liza looked her up and down, then stared challengingly into her eyes. “Blood magics are a serious crime in Gilbratha.”

Blood magics were a crime almost everywhere, and for good reason. Sacrificing a human, or pieces of one, or casting a spell that involved torture or excessive cruelty to a living being may have led to powerful spells, but the cost was unconscionable. Siobhan cleared her throat, which seemed to have dried up. “What type of…blood magic, exactly? If you plan to use any sort of human Sacrifice, I don’t believe I need your services, after all.”

Liza snorted derisively, the puff of air sending a loose curl flying away from her cheek. “This one has drunk deeply from the proverbial well, huh, Oliver? No, child, there will be no human components, no bathing in the blood of virgins. We will be casting a Lino-Wharton messenger spell. It requires a being that can speak, so we will be using a pair of ravens. One must die to temporarily enhance the capabilities of the other. The second raven will also die when the spell runs its course. Admittedly, the death of the first raven is not…pleasant, but it is over in less than a minute. If you cannot handle this, feel free to leave, after vowing not to reveal my location or this conversation.” Liza sipped her tea again, but her dark, half-lidded eyes were focused on Siobhan with the kind of concentration she had seen in hunters before they loosed an arrow at their unsuspecting prey.

Siobhan swallowed, but didn’t look away. “That’s not a problem. We’ll do the spell,” she said. In her head, she continued, ‘And while I help you cast the spell, I will be memorizing it. Two ravens. Not pleasant, but not as bad as it could be. I have used raven components in other spells, though admittedly not while the raven was still alive. If I need to speak to my father again, I will not need you.’

“I will require a blood print from both of you as assurance of your discretion,” the woman warned. “And fifty gold.”

Dryden nodded. “She has standard terms,” he explained to Siobhan. “We cannot divulge her identity, location, or the services she performed to the authorities or those we believe might mean her harm, and she must promise the same for us. It is nothing nefarious.”

‘Nothing nefarious, except for the fact that it is a blood-based vow.’ Aloud, she repeated, “Fifty gold.” Even that was almost expensive enough to make her re-think her desire to speak to her father.

Liza placed her teacup on a nearby table, dipped her finger into the liquid, and traced a quick Circle on the table around it. Using merely the warmth of the air and pure Will, she re-warmed the tea, then swallowed the rest in a single gulp.

It was a casual display of prowess, and Siobhan’s respect deepened. Control like that took more than practice to improve channeling capacity. It took both clarity and force of Will.

“Alright, then,” Liza said. “We had best get started. The spell will be active and the metaphorical grains of sand will begin falling through the hourglass directly after completion. I have a healing-style stasis spell that will let you reactivate the messenger at a later time, but that would be another twenty gold.”

Siobhan struggled to keep her nostrils from flaring in irritation. “No, we’ll use it right away, as long as it isn’t too conspicuous.”

“It is a bird. All the cells have windows. No one will notice anything out of the ordinary, and unless Harrow Hill has a warding scheme more impressive than my own”—the woman snorted at that idea—“the guards will never know.”

Similar to Katerin, Liza had a supply of parchment with the blood print spell already drawn, forcing Siobhan to wonder how common such a thing was. ‘Or, perhaps this is simply a sign that I’m associating with the wrong people.’ The three of them agreed to the terms Dryden had mentioned previously, and Siobhan gave Liza all the gold from her pouch.

Liza led them into a spare room with a closet where Siobhan supposed she kept her magical supplies. When the woman opened the closet door, however, the space on the other side was much too large.

Siobhan stepped through into the open area, which was filled with magical components, animals and bugs inside cages and containers, and shelves holding grimoires and magical reference books. ‘Did Liza set up some sort of folded space in her closet?’ There were even a couple little container gardens in the corner, growing under magical light. She’d only heard of such large applications of spacial magic theoretically, and seeing it for herself was more than a little impressive. She looked around for the visually disorienting signs of space-bending magic, but found none.

Catching the look of awe on Siobhan’s face, Liza rolled her eyes. “Close your mouth, girl. I simply purchased the adjacent apartment and the two below and knocked out some walls.”

Siobhan snapped her mouth closed, feeling her shoulders tighten and her chin lift in response to the embarrassment. At least her cheeks wouldn’t show her blush so easily in her real body.

Liza puttered about, gathering up supplies and a couple live ravens from one of the cages. She flipped through the grimoires, muttering to herself and stopping to study specific spells and take notes on a spare sheet of paper.

Siobhan mentally swallowed her drool at the display of magical knowledge surrounding her, much of it likely restricted and illegal. She had no particular desire to break the law or cast any depraved or harmful magics, but she would absolutely love to learn about them.

Finally, Liza motioned for them to go down the stairs into the attached ground level apartments. Dryden led the way, and Siobhan caught Liza eyeing his backside as he passed.

The woman noticed Siobhan’s surprise and smirked. “I can at least look, can’t I?”

Siobhan looked away, embarrassed, and Liza guffawed, while Dryden sent back a flirtatious smile over his shoulder.

Below, the walls fairly buzzed with wards, and the windows were missing entirely, though she hadn’t noticed that from the outside. Out of the corner of her eye, Siobhan saw the faint glimmer of active glyphs edging the corners of the rooms, like they were standing inside some giant artifact. The hair on her arms lifted, and she shuddered with vague delight. ‘This is how a sorcerer’s study should feel.’

The ravens didn’t seem to like it, and began squawking and flapping around inside their cage.

Liza shooed Dryden into the corner with firm instructions not to wander about, then proceeded to set up the prerequisite tracking spell she had mentioned, using a rod and string to draw a perfect Circle on the ground, which she expanded with a complicated Word array while Siobhan watched raptly.

She hadn’t known tracking spells could be done without any kind of natural link. She was even more glad for the warding medallion hidden next to the transformation amulet under her shirt. If her father had been wearing one, it would probably be able to ward off this attempt to locate him.

“He’s your biological father?” Liza asked, lighting a small brazier in one of the component Circles. “One of your hairs should help to augment the mnemonic link. Unless you’ve reached Journeyman level, I’d say you’re going to need it.”

The last time Siobhan had been tested, she could channel about one hundred seventy-five thaums, which was firmly Apprentice level, well below a Journeyman sorcerer. Somewhat reluctantly, she plucked a single strand and placed it in the component Circle where Liza had drawn the glyph that represented hair or fur.

“At least you know that much,” the woman said. She placed a small iron needle in the middle of the center Circle and turned to Siobhan. “I will handle the tracking part of the spell. You simply need to associate the needle with your father as strongly as you can while I do so. Create a sympathetic link. I will not be supplementing your Will, so if the raven cannot manage to find him, I accept no responsibility.”

Siobhan pushed down her irritation and simply nodded. She wasn’t fully recovered from her over-exertion a couple days before, but at least hadn’t done any magic yet that day. Her Will wouldn’t fail her.

When Liza gave the sign, Siobhan’s whole purpose locked onto the needle lying there on the ground before her. She ran through memories of her father in detail, cataloguing him for the purpose of the tracker, and ordering the magic to agree that the needle and her father were—antithetically—one being. It was one of the core applications of transmogrification.

When Liza finished, Siobhan relaxed her concentration. The fire in the small brazier had been consumed so thoroughly it left only ashes and cold wood behind. She was fairly confident that the linking spell had worked, but didn’t know how to be sure.

Liza seemed unworried, setting the sliver of iron aside carefully and wiping the floor clean of chalk. “You can help cast the messenger spell, since it will improve your control of the raven, but don’t get in the way,” she said. “Focus your Will on what I tell you, and naught else.”

Next, Liza tied up one of the ravens with some cord to keep it from flapping or hopping away, then used a snake tongue and a small drop of what Siobhan thought was laudanum as components in a forceful calming spell. When she was done, she placed it back into its cage, where it lay against the bars docilely.

The other bird grew more agitated at all of this, squawking and beating at the cage with its wings.

Liza drew yet another Circle and its accompanying Word array, this one even more complex. She worked at it so long Siobhan had to shuffle from foot to foot to keep her legs from falling asleep. After placing a thumb-sized beast core in one of the component Circles, Liza wrangled and bound the unsedated raven and laid it in the center of the main Circle. She placed the docile raven next to it. “We’re drawing on the vitality and intelligence of the brother for our messenger. It’s transmogrification, not transmutation, so be sure to concentrate. Don’t link their lives, we wouldn’t want both ravens to die.”

When Liza activated the spell, the unsedated raven gave a horrified shriek and wriggled around as if trying to escape. The sound quickly gurgled out, and the bird went still, its little black eyes staring at nothing.

The calm raven seemed to perk up, some vigor coming back to its gaze, but, though it struggled a little, no non-sapient creature could have resisted Liza’s magic and the forced docility.

Liza used the butt of a silver knife to crack the dead raven’s skull while the other watched with dark little eyes. She scooped out the brains and set them aside in a small wooden bowl. She also took an eyeball, a feather, and a claw, and after a quick adjustment to the Circle, told Siobhan to focus her Will on the three pieces of dead bird, exerting mastery over them, and through them, to the still living bird. “When you have these items, you will be acknowledged as the raven’s master. You will also need to see through its eyes and hear through its ears. If you botch this, you may find using the messenger quite unpleasant. Concentrate on both the domination and the communication at once.”

Siobhan wasn’t familiar with this sort of domination spell, and though the instructions weren’t unclear, they also weren’t as helpful as she would have liked. She had no time to ask for clarification, however, because Liza turned her attention back to the spell immediately and began to cast.

When it was finished, Liza dropped the bird pieces in a little pouch, which she tossed to Siobhan. “You keep that on you, if you want the messenger to obey your instructions.”

Siobhan hoped she hadn’t botched the connection. ‘What exactly does “unpleasant” mean?’ She leaned her back against the wall, breathing deeply. Casting spells didn’t require any actual physical exertion in most cases, but the strain of channeling power could still leave thaumaturges panting and trembling.

Liza, breathing barely a little harder from the effort, looked Siobhan up and down, and with a judgmental “tch,” allowed her to take a break.

‘How many thaums is this woman channeling as if it were nothing?’ Siobhan wondered.

Finally, with another adjustment to the complex Circle, moving some of the component Circles inward to intersect with the main one, Liza set the spell-calmed bird in the center again.

She placed the tiny brains of the dead raven in one of the component Circles, birdseed in another, and the metal sliver they’d spelled earlier in a third. “This is the hardest part. The brains of its brother for more intelligence, enough to follow your orders. The birdseed for loyalty to its master. The iron needle for the ability to find the target. The string…” She tied the end of a huge ball of yarn to the raven’s leg, then moved to Siobhan and tied a loop around her wrist. “He will follow your commands within the length of the string.”

Liza brought her face close and peered at Siobhan, presumably looking for signs of Will-strain.

Siobhan’s thoughts were still the slightest bit woozy, but she nodded firmly. “Yes.”

Liza turned back to the Circle, raising her hands dramatically as she set the spell in motion. “Eat,” she told the bird. Under the effects of the docility spell, it complied, pecking up birdseed, brain matter, and even the spelled needle. It swallowed them all.

Siobhan felt like she could sense the other woman’s Will as it hummed through the strings of magic itself, brushing against her own. It was like a predator, sleek and muscled, pacing hungrily.

The beast core powering the spell glowed red, and the Circle began to emit a faint, colorless light under the strain, despite how defined the Word array had been and how hard the both of them concentrated.

The raven flopped on the floor like it was being possessed by a devil, but didn’t make a sound.

Siobhan’s heart pounded in her chest and her head began to throb, but she refused to falter or to lose concentration. More than simply causing the spell to fail, loss of control over the many thaums of energy pulsing through the Circle might cause dangerous physical backlash or Will-strain.

Finally, the energy settled. The string connecting her and the raven burned up in a flash, just fast enough to singe her skin but not truly injure her.

Liza lowered her arms, and Siobhan released her mental grip on the spell.

“It is finished,” the woman said, picking up the raven and handing it to Siobhan. “He will act as your messenger with preternatural skill and intelligence—well, for a bird—as long as you do not send him beyond the length of the string, which was about thirteen hundred meters. His brain will hemorrhage and he will die between ninety minutes to two hours from now, so you must work quickly.”

Siobhan held the raven to her chest in weak arms, feeling some pity for the creature and its brother. It couldn’t be helped, though. Magic always came with a cost. “Since I spent so much,” she said, smiling feebly at the other woman, “do you think you could throw in the birdcage for free?”


A note from AzaleaEllis

This is one of my favorite chapters!

I post illustrated excerpts from Siobhan's Grimoire on Patreon. I just uploaded "Basic Elements of a Spell," which delves into how sorcery works a little deeper.

If you'd like to check out what these grimoire excerpts are like, the "Spark Shooting Spell" booklet is available free to everyone. In it, Siobhan teaches, with rather good illustrations, how to cast a spell that shoots sparks, for the purpose of lighting a fire, scaring off an animal, or signaling your location under duress.

You can download that one free here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/grimoire-page-37833259

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-9-crossing-the-threshold-of-disillusionment/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 9 - Crossing the Threshold of Disillusionment

Siobhan

Month 9, Day 30, Wednesday 1:00 a.m.

It was well into the night by the time they left Liza’s home, Siobhan carrying the messenger raven in a cage, which Liza had indeed given her for free.

When they reached the street she was surprised—and a little embarrassed—to realize she didn’t actually know where the Harrow Hill Penitentiary was located. ‘I’m navigating the city surprisingly well for someone who arrived just days ago,’ she consoled herself, motioning for Dryden to lead the way.

It was best that he do it anyway, because she was once again on the verge of serious Will-strain and needed to let her mind relax. It was only another reminder of her unacceptable weakness. Liza must have done ten times as much for the spell as Siobhan, and the older woman had still seemed clear-headed and only a little tired when they left. ‘Grandfather would’ve been ashamed,’ she admitted to herself. ‘Even more reason why I cannot lose this opportunity to enter the University, no matter the cost.’

She kept her hood pulled up, but the streets were empty, and the only copper they saw was blocks away with his back turned to them. Still, they hurried on before he could notice them.

Dryden led them on a winding path over bridges and through the narrower streets, but eventually they arrived at one of the stone-walled canals that cut through the city. “This should be close enough,” he said, gesturing to a sizeable stone building a few hundred meters past the river. It was a single structure built in the shape of a cross, likely for the magical authority that shape provided when used in spells. It was the same reason a lot of the more expensive buildings were round and domed, or had circular towers. Harrow Hill Penitentiary was more stout than tall, settled on a slight rise in the land, and seemed to have intimidated all the nearby buildings into cowering away from it. A stone wall surrounded the grounds in a circle, giving the final touch to the fortress.

Siobhan opened the door to the raven’s cage.

The spell-augmented bird hopped out, but seemed in no hurry to do anything but stand listlessly on the ground.

Dryden nudged it with a finger, frowning when it didn’t respond. “Is it supposed to act like this?”

Siobhan had no idea. She fished the pouch of bird parts—the ones harvested from the sacrificed raven—out of a pocket. As soon as it was in her hand again, she felt a little wiggle in her mind, like the end of a string that she could grab onto. She tugged on the mental impression of connection.

The raven on the ground fluttered its wings.

‘I definitely underestimated Liza. She’s a powerful sorcerer, perhaps even at the level of a Master or Grandmaster.’ Siobhan grasped the spell’s controls a bit more firmly, feeling out how to control the creature. Unlike using an artifact, there were no switches, dials, or conditions she had to meet before the magic would work. Liza had drawn a complex array, but even with such a thorough written Word, this spell hinged on Will and the raw power of the Sacrifices.

“Find him,” she murmured.

The raven took flight.

Siobhan experienced a disorienting double vision as the raven’s sight overlapped her own, forcing her to close her eyes while it moved.

The raven had a wider field of view than she did, and could focus in on small objects from a greater distance, but its night vision was poor. Still, it had the iron needle pointing the way to her father, and that was all it needed.

Urged to caution, it alighted in the branches of one of the few trees within the jail’s walls, watching for movement or other signs of the guards. It turned its beak toward a small, iron-barred, dark hole in the thick grey stone of an upper floor. There was no glass set in any of the windows looking out over the grounds, but she saw some windows were closed with wooden shutters. This window was open.

‘If I’m interpreting the feedback correctly, that is the window to my father’s cell.’ She sent the raven fluttering toward it.

The dark-feathered creature landed, its form, backed by moonlight, throwing a shadow onto the floor within. It cocked its head and looked at the blanket-covered lump lying on the stone floor. Siobhan sensed a hint of an uncomfortable sensation, like an itch, as the bird, more sensitive to magic than any human, picked up on the wards woven into the walls and floor. It squawked.

The prisoner stirred and turned toward the window, moving into the moonlight.

Siobhan breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of her father’s face.

He had a small bruise across one freckled cheekbone, and his jaw had grown scruffy with dark copper stubble, but his limbs moved normally, and he seemed otherwise unharmed.

He scowled at the raven and flapped his hands at it. “Shoo! Go away, you stupid bird.” His voice held a faint brogue from the northern islands, his homeland, and the origin of her name.

With a mental tug on the link between them, Siobhan spoke through both the raven’s mouth and her own. “Father, it’s me.” On the raven’s end, it came out as a slightly-mangled, surprisingly sonorous croak, but the words remained recognizable.

Her father scrambled back against the far wall with a speed and level of fright she found faintly—vindictively—comical. After a few seconds of heavy breathing, he leaned away from the shadowed corner. “Siobhan? Is that you, lovely?”

She scowled at the way his voice softened, the coercive way he said “lovely.” She’d heard him use that tone and pet name on a hundred women throughout her life, always when he wanted something from them and had nothing to offer in return but a bit of charm and a handsome—supposedly—smile. She’d inherited her mother’s looks, and growing up, she’d been careful to imitate Grandfather’s speech, thus keeping the brogue out of it altogether. “It’s me,” she said again. “Are you well? What have they told you?”

Instead of responding, Ennis moved closer, standing and reaching up to poke at the raven. He drew his fingers back quickly when it flapped its wings and pecked at him, perhaps of its own volition, or perhaps picking up on her agitation. “How did you turn into a bird? You never did this before. Did the old man teach you?”

Siobhan gritted her teeth, ignoring the curious look from Dryden back at her real body. “Never mind that. Tell me about the coppers. They haven’t hurt you, it seems. Have they given you any information about what lies in store for you, or their search for me?”

Her father grinned. “Well, lovely, it’s actually not so bad ‘ere. I tell you, when they first captured me, I did my fair share of screaming and fighting back. Clocked a couple of them good, too. But it turns out, once they learned I didna’ have that old professor’s book, they only wanted to know about you.”

Her heart sank at the bright expression on his face. Though she didn’t know exactly what thoughts were running through his head, they obviously contained no concern for her.

“The Gervins, they’re one of the Crown Families, you know? So wealthy you’d never need to work a day in your life, and as your father I’d be taken care of as well, o’ course—” He seemed to realize he was rambling and coughed to cut himself off. “What I mean is, a couple representatives from the Gervins came to visit me while the coppers were doing their interrogation—and with the coppers being entirely too aggressive, by the way—and when I told them that you are Siobhan Naught and about your bloodline on your mother’s side, and that you’d bring the book along with you, they were more than interested in coming to an agreement. You do still ‘ave the book, right?”

Back near the canal, Dryden touched her shoulder to warn her of people passing by, a small group of stumbling men with their arms thrown around women whose necklines plunged so low their chests almost spilled out of their ruffled dresses. The group passed around both a bottle and a pipe trailing distinctive blue smoke as they meandered by, completely oblivious to Siobhan and Dryden.

Siobhan used the enforced pause in the conversation with her father to calm the agitated beat of her heart. Something about his words had her spine straightening and her shoulders thrown back, as if perfect, confident posture would shield her from his selfish, shortsighted intentions. “He’s made some kind of deal with the Gervin Family,” she murmured to Dryden, ignoring her father, who was waving his hand in front of the silent raven’s face and asking if she was listening.

Once the group of drunkards and their prostitutes had passed out of easy listening range, she returned her attention to her father. “What agreement?”

“To take you into the Family, Siobhan! It’s wonderful, right? The bride price for you will be enough to cover my fines and live comfortably for a good few years besides—no execution or working in the mines to pay off my ‘debt’ to the Crowns—and you’ll be a real lady. O’ course, you’d only be bound to one of the lesser sons, but still, our status would be leagues above what it is now. Once you bear an heir, there’ll be no chance of them throwing you out and simply keeping the book.”

Siobhan almost gagged.

He tapped his temple with a smug smile. “So my thought is, hold the book ransom until then. We can put a clause in the marriage contract.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “In fact, once you’ve born an heir, they ’ave no recourse at all, even if the book were to mysteriously go missing. Perhaps sold to someone else? From what I can tell, many people’d be willing to pay quite a price for it, even though none can say quite why they want it so badly. I imagine it may be a relic from the time o’ the Titans.”

He spoke for a while longer, but she was no longer listening.

Siobhan blinked at the dark waters of the wide canal in front of her, twinkles of street lamps and moonlight reflecting off its surface. ‘Marriage? He is bargaining for his release and enough money to live comfortably on as my…bride price?’ She found herself trembling. Delayed, a shuddering rush of hot and cold rose up through her body, a physical reaction to the onslaught of emotion.

She was lightheaded with rage. “And if I refuse?” The raven’s voice had trouble mimicking her tone, but some of that cold, deep timbre must have come across.

Her father blinked at the raven in cowlike confusion. “But lovely, why would you refuse? This’ll solve all my problems. Not only the imprisonment, but returning to a proper station in life. No more running around struggling to raise ourselves back up again, you studying magic so frantically and selling your services to anyone who will pay in money or food. You’ll not have to scramble and beg to put yourself through the University. The Gervins only care about the book, your bloodline, and your childbearing hips, not your prowess. We’ll be able to travel the world while enjoying the high life!” He had been speaking more and more quickly, his arms waving around with excitement, but he stopped suddenly, peering into the raven’s black eyes. “You do still ‘ave the book, right? Please tell me you’ve not lost it or gotten rid of it. It’s worth more gold than either you or I ‘ave encountered in our entire lives.”

“It will solve all your problems?” she whispered aloud, almost deaf from the rush of blood in her ears. The raven, by contrast, was silent.

Dryden put a hand on her shoulder. He was saying something she couldn’t process, a concerned look on his face.

She ignored him, all her attention focused on the man who she had somehow, even after everything, still expected to care for her beyond his own interest in what she could do for him. The man she had expected to protect her. To respect her. ‘I have been living a fantasy,’ she realized. ‘He has never been that man. I called him “Father” and expected him to fit the role. He showed me who he was many times, and I grew disillusioned, and yet I still hadn’t reconciled his actions with the idea of him I had in my head.’

The raven shuffled, squawking and flapping its wings in distress.

“Siobhan? Lovely?” Ennis called, his still-handsome face pulling into an expression of fatherly concern. “It’ll be alright. I promise.”

The raven screeched, beating its wings against the iron bars covering the window. Its vision swirled, and that magnetic pull that drew it to Ennis swung wildly as vertigo overtook it.

The raven fell from the window. Its brain hemorrhaged violently as the spell ran out of power. It was dead before it hit the ground.

Siobhan drew a shuddering breath and lifted her chin, staring into the darkness with a regal, forcefully blank look on her face. “That man knows nothing that might harm us. We can leave.”

Dryden gave her a concerned look, but kept his thoughts to himself.

Siobhan strode away, and very deliberately did not look back.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

Poor Siobhan.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-10-playing-detective/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 10 - Playing Detective

Damien

Month 10, Day 1, Thursday 1:00 p.m.

Damien brushed dust and cobwebs out of his hair as he slipped through the secret passageway behind the family study, where his older brother was currently receiving a report from the investigator assigned to the recent theft from the University. Damien’s hair, which he had painstakingly styled that morning, would be ruined, and he shuddered at the idea of spiders crawling under the collar of his shirt, but it was worth it.

He waved away another cobweb, then activated the spell array on the wall. A tiny tube opened up in the stone, a peephole that would be invisible from the other side…if the illusion spell worked properly. He leaned forward and peered through with one eye.

Damien quickly dubbed the man talking to his brother Investigator Cough for his irritating hacking.

The man had brought a Shipp evidence box, which sat on the desk in front of Damien’s brother, Titus. The metal cube was on its transparent setting, and within lay what Damien thought was a dead crow. It was hard to tell from his vantage point, but he could make out black feathers and some blood.

“Are you sure it was her?” Titus said, peering down at the thing with his hands in his pockets.

Damien knew that was a habit formed to keep him from reaching out to touch something—and unwittingly damage the evidence needed for investigations. It was unnecessary. The stasis artifact precluded any danger of damage or contamination.

“It is possible that some other sorcerer created a Lino-Wharton blood messenger, of course, but the chosen recipient, as well as the existence of a sliver of lodestone in its brain, makes it unlikely.”

“And the man? Ennis Naught, if I’m correct—the one who claims to be her father?” Titus glanced toward the wall where Damien was peeking through, but didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.

“When he first flagged down a guard, he was screaming about his daughter falling to her death from the window. He seemed to be under the impression that she had transformed into the raven directly rather than simply using it as a medium to speak to him. Once we were able to calm him down and explain, he was quick enough to tell us everything. He had no useful information. Apparently, she asked no more than a few questions, and he spent their entire conversation talking. He doesn’t even know if she still has the text.”

Titus scowled down at the man, who coughed uncomfortably under the weight of the famous Westbay gaze. “Were any precautions taken to ensure the prisoner was truthful?”

“Of course. All the high-security wing cells have the strongest legal ward against untruth built in, and we had a prognos come in to watch him give his statement. No signs of lying about what the person who contacted him said or did, or about his knowledge of the text. The prognos said he likely ‘bent the truth’ to make himself seem more likeable in the retelling. Siobhan, it appears, did not respond favorably to the marriage contract with the Gervins.”

Damien had only met a prognos once. The large eye in the middle of their head had felt like it was looking right through his skin into his mind. A prognos was necessary when interrogating witnesses or suspects in any serious investigation. The “strongest legal wards” against lies were little more than vague compulsions, and thus utterly useless against a determined liar. It was said the best prognos diviners could see directly into the past to discover the identity of a criminal, but Damien knew that was a myth. His family would use one on every team of coppers if it was true, despite the cost. Prognos were simply perceptive, able to read people’s intentions with uncanny clarity, like the main character in his favorite detective periodicals.

Titus ran his fingers through his hair, which somehow didn’t muss its perfection, even though he spent barely a few seconds on it in the morning, unlike Damien.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Titus had some secret spell for perfect hair and, if he did, why his older brother had never shared this knowledge with him.

“Let us hope she doesn’t change her mind about the Gervins. Is there any more news about the rest of the items discovered in the University’s archaeological dig?”

“The University is being somewhat reticent in sharing information…”

Titus waved his hand impatiently. “I know how it is.”

Investigator Cough nodded an apology. “As far as I know, they successfully decrypted one of the remaining texts, but sources say it contained no valuable information, magical or otherwise.”

Titus clenched his jaw, but then sighed deeply. “Alright, Investigator Kuchen. Is there anything else to report?”

“We are placing wards around Naught’s cell that should notify us of any further visitors, human or not. If anything but the bugs or the guards tries to get to his cell again, we’ll know, and we’ll be able to track them when they leave, for almost a kilometer. We will have an Apprentice constantly monitoring the spell’s output for notable occurrences.”

Titus nodded. “Alright, Kuchen. You are dismissed. Get back to the investigation. Find her.”

The shorter man bowed and took the Shipp evidence box from the desk, turning off the metal’s invisibility function and hurrying away. Sporadic coughing marked his travel down the hall.

Titus stared at his desk for a while, seemingly deep in thought.

Just as Damien was about to release the snooping spell and sneak away, Titus turned to face him, staring straight into the peephole. “I know you’re eavesdropping, Damien. Why not come out and speak with me?”

Damien let out a small squeak as his heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, hand pressing on his chest, then said, “How did you know I was here? Is the illusion spell malfunctioning?”

Titus chuckled. “I’m the one who showed you that passageway and the eavesdropping spell, if you remember?” That had been when they were younger, when this was still their father’s office.

Damien flushed, but he did as his brother asked, turning and exiting the dust-filled passage. In the main hallway, he paused to make sure the entrance was properly disguised behind him, then walked around the corner, and, with some trepidation, opened the door to the study where his brother waited. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just, Father hasn’t let me out of the house since I returned from Paneth, and the little I have heard about this case is so interesting.”

Titus clapped a hand on Damien’s shoulder and smiled down at him. “I’m not angry. You’ve always had a fascination with our family’s work, especially that of the investigators.”

Damien had wanted to be a detective since he was six years old. He knew that, as a member of one of the thirteen Crown Families, and merely the second in succession for the head of their Family, he would never be allowed to hold such a mundane job. At best, he would supervise the coppers and take a special interest in important investigations, like his brother did now. Maybe he would even take control of the city’s army when his brother became the head of the house. Still, learning how to do the job of a copper was important. If he didn’t understand what his Family’s underlings did, how could he lead them?

Titus turned to the desk where the evidence box had sat. “This is indeed an interesting case, and an important one. The First Family and the University are both anxious for a resolution. The High Crown has personally instructed me on the urgency of the situation.”

Damien’s eyes widened. “I thought it was simply a stolen book. Rare and expensive, to be sure, and the method of the theft was bold and flashy enough to fan sensationalist rumors. I mean, taking it right under the nose of one of the professors, from within the University, with no attempt at stealth…” He stopped himself from rambling. “I understand why the University’s desperate to apprehend her and regain their honor, but why is the High Crown personally interested?”

Titus kept staring at the desk. “I don’t know.” His brother’s Will, strong enough even when he was Damien’s age to channel a bolt of lightning, sometimes became almost tangible, like a weight in the air itself. Damien always knew to tread lightly when that happened, for all that Titus would never harm him.

“You will catch her though, right? You already have her father. It cannot be much longer.”

Titus sat at his desk and leaned back in his chair, one hand unconsciously ruffling his perfect hair again. “It’s been made difficult because of the number of people who come to Gilbratha this time of year for the University entrance exams. Over ten thousand people take the written exams each year. Many of those have traveled to do so, bringing family members and servants. She’s just one among many outsiders. If she was smart, she would’ve already left the city, taken asylum in another country. That would have made things much harder. But she’s still here, and bold enough to send an illegal messenger into the high security wing of Harrow Hill. Sooner or later, Damien, everyone makes a mistake.” Titus gave Damien a small smile. “When she does, I will have her.”

The pressure in the air lightened, and Damien smiled in return, moving forward to sit on the edge of one of the other desks. “So how did she do it? Stealing from the University shouldn’t be so easy, but all the stories I’ve heard are either outrageous or contradictory. And what is a Lino-Wharton blood messenger?”

“Unsurprisingly, it seems the whole commotion was less dramatic than the rumors would have you believe. You know how the commoners love a good drama. The theft was accomplished with brazen insouciance. There was substantial surveillance on the relics, but a perfectly—and unfortunately—timed series of security breaches took away oversight on the book at just the right moment. As far as we can tell, however, it really was coincidental.”

Damien raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

Titus nodded. “Yes. Both father and daughter accessed the University under the pretense of meeting with Professor Munchworth, who teaches Titanic History and Lore, and who was receiving several of the relics the University’s expedition had uncovered. The girl stayed in the room with him while the father put on a show of anger and stormed out to intercept the incoming relics. Ennis Naught grabbed the book right under the University’s nose, and then the two of them simply ran. Sometime during the flight—though I’m not sure if they planned it—he gave the book to her for better safekeeping, and they split up. He isn’t even a thaumaturge. Not even a magician.” Magicians did not have to be thaumaturges at all, only use an artifact or alchemical concoction to create a magical effect. Even Nulls, who by some anomaly of genetics could not cast magic at all, could still be classified as magicians if they could afford the real work to be done by someone else. Historically, magicians were often charlatans trying to scam a few coin out of someone before the ruse was discovered, or thugs hired to do the bidding of a powerful thaumaturge.

Damien’s eyes wandered around the room as he considered his brother’s story. “But she is a thaumaturge. Is the Lino-Wharton blood messenger a difficult spell?”

“Very. It’s also restricted, and is generally both short range and short term, so she must be within Gilbratha still. The power requirement multiplies exponentially at greater distances, with the spell starting out at over five thousand thaums on the Henrik-Thompson for even the most basic version. It would be far too costly to cast from outside the city.” He paused. “Of course, Ennis Naught claims he stole the book on a whim.”

Damien’s eyebrows rose, but then he snorted. “A whim? Did the prognos not divine a lie?”

Titus shook his head. “No. Which throws more than I would like into question. Naught says they were there to ask Professor Munchworth to sponsor his daughter through the University, and thought he would be interested because of the Naught bloodline on her mother’s side. Ennis was a wealthy commoner from the northern islands who married into the clan and took their name. He says the girl is an untaught sorceress, and he has no idea how she performed the messenger spell.” Titus paused here, looking thoughtfully at his desk. “If she is really untaught, however, how could she have managed to escape with the text past the squads both we and the University sent out to find her? It seems unlikely to be pure luck, especially since she has followed her unlikely escape up with this stunt. It’s almost as if she means to mock us.”

“But if he’s lying about that, or has had some sort of geas put on him to make him believe what he’s saying, something strong enough to block a prognos diviner, then he could be lying about everything.” Damien couldn’t help the spark of excitement in his voice. This case was quickly becoming one of the most interesting he’d ever heard of, on par with something out of one of his fiction periodicals.

“Exactly.” His brother rubbed his temples, a rare show of weakness, then looked up at Damien suddenly. “The University entrance examination is in only a few days. Shouldn’t you be studying?”

Damien flushed a little, but tried to wave it off. “The examination allows even commoners to enter. I’ve been preparing for this my entire life. I won’t fail due to a lack of last-minute studying.”

Titus raised an eyebrow, settling back in his chair like a king on his throne. “The examination is ranked. You will get back to your books and practice, and take one of the top three hundred spots, or when I get the news, we will spar.”

Damien paled, immediately hopping off the desk and hurrying out of the room. “If I place in the top three hundred, you have to teach me how you knew I was eavesdropping.” He closed the door behind him before his brother could object, then slumped off to the room where his tutor was waiting for him, no doubt wondering why it had taken him so long to go to the bathroom.

If only Damien could help in the investigation, rather than being stuck studying or in school. It wasn’t fair, but that was the way of things in the Crown Families. Freedom was exclusively for the supremely powerful, and sometimes not even then.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

Damien is actually a really fun character to write.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-11-written-examination/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 11 - Written Examination

Sebastien

Month 10, Day 13, Tuesday 6:00 a.m.

After the raven-assisted conversation with her father, Siobhan went straight to the guest room Dryden had given her. Trembling faintly with exhaustion, she wrote down the Lino-Wharton messenger spell in as much detail as she could remember it, for later study. Her own grimoire, the place where she kept notes on all the magic she’d learned since childhood, was not as well-protected as the book her fath—as the book Ennis had stolen, but it would have to do until she could learn better wards.

She also realized belatedly that she’d forgotten to ask him about her mother’s ring, which had a powerful celerium Conduit in place of a lesser gem. The thick metal band was an artifact that kept people from noticing that Ennis wore it, which he had activated several times to avoid being forced to give the ring up after losing it gambling. Hopefully, he’d had enough foresight to do so this time before being caught. She doubted she would ever see it again if one of the coppers had taken it from him. But he hadn’t mentioned the ring when he was complaining about their treatment. ‘I don’t remember seeing it, but then again I wouldn’t, not if he was hiding it.’

She threw herself into study until the day of the University examination, remaining in Sebastien’s body the entire time—both so none of the servants would notice anything amiss, and to determine the limits of the artifact’s transformation spell.

So far, there didn’t seem to be any limits, other than an inability to choose her alternate form. Two weeks after returning to the male body, she noticed no degradation, either physically or in her ability to cast magic through the foreign flesh.

When she woke in the middle of the night, which she did often despite her dreamless sleep spell, Sebastien would study the artifact and the encrypted book until she could either go back to sleep or the sun rose. She made absolutely no progress understanding either.

She looked for books on ward-breaking or decryption at the certified bookstore attached to the tutoring center, but found only a primer on wards for children. ‘I suppose the Crowns don’t want unlicensed sorcerers learning how to break their wards.’ She considered asking Liza for help again, but doubted she could afford the woman’s services.

Sebastien woke early the day of the examination. She rubbed her burning eyes and stumbled to the kitchen, where she dug out the richest coffee beans she could find and steeped a cup of wakefulness brew. Dryden’s beans were high quality, channeling the wakefulness magic so smoothly it was like drinking fresh silk.

She refrained from any other magic in order to keep her strength up for the exams. Outside the kitchen window, the street grew busy as both the sun and the city woke.

The servants arrived only shortly before Dryden came down, greeting her somewhat familiarly.

The cook, a middle-aged woman named Sharon, tutted at the large steaming mug and the bags under Sebastien’s eyes. “Titan’s balls, child, did you sleep at all?”

“Some,” Sebastien croaked. “As much as I could.”

“Well, I suppose you’re excited for the test. Radiant Maiden knows I probably couldn’t sleep, either, if I were going to become a sorcerer. Well, sit down, child. I’ll make you something to eat.” She raised her palm in a halting gesture and looked pointedly away when Sebastien shook her head in an attempted denial. “You’ll need your energy—for all that thinking. Nothing rich, don’t worry. A couple eggs and some porridge will set easy in your stomach.”

Sebastien found, once she started eating, that the food did indeed help to settle her nerves.

She thanked the woman, who waved off her thanks with a blush. “Always so polite, Mr. Siverling. My kitchen’s open to such a well-mannered boy any time.”

When Dryden came downstairs, fully dressed and looking impossibly fresh, Sebastien offered him coffee with a wave of her hand.

“You seem quite calm. Are you prepared for the examination, then?” he asked, taking her up on the silent offer and sitting across from her at the kitchen table.

Sebastien carefully didn’t react to the sudden clenching of her heart. She took a gulp of tea. “I’m as prepared as I can be, I think.”

Dryden nodded silently, leaning back in his chair without concern.

Sebastien found some comfort in his nonchalance. If he thought she was in danger of failing, surely he’d be more tense.

She’d read through all the textbooks she bought, from cover to cover, but even for her, two weeks was too little time to fully assimilate that much information. Full understanding and easy recollection required her to add associations between the information to other thoughts and memories, and that took time. There was no way to Sacrifice a book to forcefully absorb its information. Her grandfather had told her stories about research that attempted to forcefully impart knowledge, skills, and even strength of Will to people during the Blood Emperor’s reign. Despite the heinous lengths they were willing to go to, they were left with nothing but dead test subjects and broken sorcerers. There was no easy path to mental improvement.

Still, being able to study magic, even indirectly, from morning till night was like a dream come to life.

This time when she left for the University, she wore a suit that fit. It was one of a handful that Dryden had commissioned for her and which she had reluctantly paid for. By the time she reached the great steel gates at the top of the white cliffs, her legs once again burned horribly, and she was panting for breath.

A crowd of prospective students milled around the entranceway, which was guarded by stern-faced coppers with openly displayed battle wands. Sebastien looked around, counting the number of people in a small section and then multiplying that over the rough size of the group to estimate the number of people there to take the test. Her eyebrows rose.

Over five hundred people stood in the crowd. This was the last round of the examinations that had been going on for the past two weeks, which meant that at least seven thousand people had applied this term. Probably closer to ten thousand. Suddenly, she was a bit more worried about her chances.

Attendants led them to the main University building, which the locals called the Citadel. The looming cylindrical structure was no less impressive up close. The main entranceway was large enough for ten students to stand shoulder to shoulder with another ten atop their shoulders, and yet it still seemed small compared to the building. A huge guardian sky kraken was carved into and around the door frame. It glared down at all who dared to enter. Sebastien shivered as she passed through, imagining she could feel the weight of stone and magic pressing down on her.

She followed the crowd through a straight hallway with curving corridors branching off it in both directions. Finally, they reached a large marble hall with white stone columns holding up the roof. The middle of the hall was rectangular, but on either side of the columns the space was curved into the shape of a half circle. One side was filled with items in display cases, and the other an empty stage. This was the innermost circle of the many-ringed building, like the core of a massive tree trunk.

Huge panes of opaque glass lined the walls, glimmering like the inside of a seashell and shining with a light that reminded her of the rising sun. She would’ve thought they were windows, but they were gathered deep inside the building, with no access to the outside. ‘A modified light crystal spell?’ she speculated.

Row after row of simple wooden desks lined the middle of the Great Hall, each set with a small stack of papers, a fountain pen, and an inkwell.

Each student chose a seat at random until all the desks were full. Sebastien gingerly ran her fingers over the two spell arrays carved into the wood of her desk, trying to figure out what they did. The one on the right contained their test papers, while the one on the left might have been a scanning spell of some sort.

Before she could decipher much, a dark-haired woman wearing a subtly glyph-embroidered dress suit ascended the stage and pounded the floor with her staff. A University staff token, rectangular and carved from stone, hung from a chain around her neck. “Attention! The examination will begin now. Please use the provided materials and answer the questions thoroughly. When you have finished a page of the examination, please place it face down within the Circle on the left side of your desk. Any cheating will be punished by expulsion from the test, with no chance to re-apply for later examinations.” She glared out at them. “If you cheat, we will catch you. You will never study here.”

The prospective students shuffled uncomfortably under the weight of her stare.

‘How will they know? Perhaps the spell arrays on the desk have something to do with detecting cheats. Or maybe they have some sort of transmogrification-based ward in place, a variation on a ward against lies?’ Sebastien didn’t know enough to make a reasonable guess, but she certainly wouldn’t be testing the proctor’s promise.

“Today’s examination lasts five hours. When the time is up, please put down your pens and bring your completed tests to the front for grading. Begin.”

Sebastien waited barely a heartbeat before flipping over the first page of the test. Instead of a question, it simply instructed her to place the wooden applicant token she’d received two weeks before on the paper and re-write her name. When she’d done so, the token lit up and burned a symbol on the paper. Sebastien moved on to the next page. Over the next five hours, she answered question after question, some normal and expected.

“Name eight magical beasts with an earth aspect.”

“List three variations on the glyph for ‘fire.’”

“In detail, explain what happens if you place a glass over a lit candle on a table.”

“List as many things with a sympathy to air as possible, citing the sympathetic connections.”

She’d studied for these kinds of questions, or been taught by her grandfather long ago. She also had no problem with some of the mathematical questions, but others gave her a bit of trouble, like, “Riding a gryphon, you leave Gilbratha at noon, heading for Paneth. Assume the gryphon is wind-aspected. Assume a southeasterly wind is blowing at seventeen kilometers per hour, and you are casting a fleet-footed spell on the gryphon, channeling an average of three thousand thaums of power per minute. How fast do you fly, and when do you arrive in Paneth?” She stared at the question, then turned over the next test page, hoping more information had been given. She knew Paneth was somewhere to the north, but hadn’t memorized the distance between Gilbratha and Paneth, and didn’t know that a fleet-footed spell would even affect a flying creature’s speed. Too many variables were missing. ‘Is this a trick question, with some hidden answer?’

Then there were questions that seemed pointless or unrelated to magic.

“List the most influential members of Gilbrathan history over the last one hundred years.”

“List the following statements in order from most likely to least likely. David is a magician. David is from Lenore. David is a magician from Lenore. David is…”

“What is the proper response if you suspect someone is casting an endless nightmare curse on you?”

Finally, some questions were simply bizarre, like the page that had a drawing spelled to move as if it were alive, showing a unicorn at the edge of a clearing with a fenced paddock. It instructed her to arrange for the unicorn to enter the paddock, and from there to harvest hair from its mane or tail.

Sebastien stared down at the skittish black-and-white creature. She brought her pen to the page, and the unicorn shied away, as if it could sense the approach of the comparatively gigantic item. She pulled the pen away and took a moment of precious time to think.

Finally, she placed the pen nib in a clear spot on the paper and wrote, “Hello. Would you mind going into the paddock? I promise you will not be harmed. I would like to trade with you for a few of the hairs from your mane or tail. In return, please name your price.”

The unicorn stared at the words forming in its sky for a long while. Finally, it blew a little bubble from its mouth, which grew until words could be read within in. “I wish to become a pegasus.”

Sebastien allowed herself a small, triumphant smile. A pegasus was the progressed form of a unicorn, the wings growing after an intense accumulation of magical energy. Normally, forcing the evolution would be impossible, or be so costly only the richest and most powerful of people could afford it. It was certainly not worth a few simple hairs. In this case, however, it was as simple as drawing wings on the back of the unicorn, for which she was rewarded with little ink representations of its hair.

The five hours passed quicker than Sebastien would have thought possible, but the stack of unfinished questions on the right side of her desk never reached the end. A couple people were forcibly escorted from their seats, presumably for being caught cheating, but Sebastien paid as little attention to them as possible. When the dark-haired proctor at the front of the room pounded the floor with her staff again, this time to announce the end of the tests, Sebastien set down her pen immediately, despite being in the middle of a frantically scribbled sentence. She would not be disqualified for cheating. Her hand was cramped into a clawlike position, and she gingerly massaged it. Around her, the proctors forced a few others to set aside their pens by magically dissolving them within the testers’ hands.

“Please bring the completed pages of your test to the grading Circle,” the woman called, her voice seeming unnaturally loud after Sebastien’s intense concentration.

Sebastien gathered up the pile of scribble-filled paper, which was definitely larger than the initial stack had been. ‘The test must be never-ending. If completion is impossible, I haven’t failed to complete it,’ she thought hopefully.

The proctor motioned for the first student that reached her to place their test in the center of a waist-high pedestal, which was inlaid with stones that looked like small versions of the crystal balls some diviners used.

The student did so, and after a tense moment, the crystal balls shone a bright yellow.

“Fail,” the woman announced expressionlessly. “You may attempt the entrance examination again next year.”

The entire room grew tense as the students realized their fates would be announced so quickly, and for all to hear.

The student stared at her in horror. “Fail? That cannot be, I—”

The proctor waved her hand, and Sebastien caught a faint glow of spell residue from her staff before the student’s words went silent, though his mouth still moved. “Do not hold up the line. You have failed. You may attempt the test again next year.”

One of the other proctors came to lead the young man away by the arm, murmuring to him with a slightly more compassionate expression, though Sebastien couldn’t hear what he said over the sudden clamor of unease among the rest of the test-takers.

The next three tests received varying colors from red to yellow, along with more “Fails,” from the woman.

The first person to pass was a familiar face, one of the girls who had been part of the group that tried to skip to the front of the admissions line. Her stack of completed papers was as big as Sebastien’s, and it caused the crystals to glow a deep blue.

The proctor even graced her with a small smile as she announced, “Pass.” Instead of being escorted out of the building, the girl was motioned to the door at the end of the hall, and carried her test with her.

Watching the results of those ahead of her, Sebastien deduced that the grades were connected to the color scale, like a rainbow. The mid-point between yellow and green, the color of a sickly leaf, seemed to be the edge between passing and failing. Generally, those who had completed more pages scored better, but not always. No one scored better than a rich imperial blue.

‘Is it even possible to score purple? Perhaps if one were able to finish all the questions available, leaving none behind unanswered. Or, perhaps none of us have answered enough questions correctly.’ It was her turn at the front of the line before she knew it. She placed her stack down in the center of the Circle, too tense to try to decipher or memorize its Word array. The wait, though she knew it to be merely a few seconds, seemed an eternity of agony.

When the crystal balls glowed a solid green, she barely heard the proctor announce her pass. She felt dizzy and took a gasp of air, belatedly realizing she had been holding her breath. She nodded her thanks to the woman, took her test papers back, the first page of which had been marked with “green five-fifteen,” and walked off toward the door at the end of the hall, vacillating between immense relief and disappointment.

‘I passed, but only with green. Darkish green, to be sure, but still just green. If I had known we would be graded by a non-human proctor, I would’ve researched best practices for the answer format and attempted to find information about the grading criteria.’ Sebastien worried that she may have condemned herself to failure from shortsightedness. After all, this was only the first half of the examination. ‘I go before a panel of professors, now. The University is renowned for their standards.’

She wanted to stop and put her head between her knees, or maybe scream out loud, but instead she lifted her chin and kept walking. ‘I have no social or political connections, and I scored only green. I’m doomed.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated! The more you guys interact with this story, the more visible it will be to other people, and I need help getting the word out.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-12-oral-examination/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 12 - Oral Examination

Sebastien

Month 10, Day 13, Tuesday 2:00 p.m.

When Sebastien passed through the door at the end of the hall, another proctor took her test and replaced her previous wooden token with a new one dated three days in the future. “Come back for the oral examination at the stated time. Don’t lose your token,” the man said in a bored monotone.

As she left, Sebastien passed a reception area where other prospective students, who she assumed had passed the written test at some earlier time, sat waiting in front of a pair of double doors.

As a girl entered the room beyond, Sebastien glimpsed the seven professors who would be in charge of her fate. They sat in a semicircle, each with what appeared to be a student’s test on the curved table before them.

‘Damn.’ She had hoped, considering her score, that the verbal examination would be completely separate from the written. ‘Only green,’ she thought again, clenching her fists. ‘How did I perform so poorly? I should have been better prepared. But then…perhaps that wasn’t truly feasible this time because of the time constraints.’ Sebastien learned quickly, but even she couldn’t make up for six years of focused training and learning instead exchanged for survival and the occasional bit of knowledge eked out where she could find and afford it. ‘Until now, I couldn’t have even paid for the study books I bought.’

When she arrived back at Dryden Manor, she locked herself in her room and returned to studying, feverishly thinking back on the test’s questions, trying to determine which ones she’d answered incorrectly.

Dryden knocked on her door as the sun set. “How did it go?”

“I passed. Not by a particularly large margin. The second part is in three days, so I have to study,” she said, not even looking up from the problem she was scribbling on the loose paper before her, the one about riding a gryphon to Paneth. She was sure she’d gotten that one wrong.

He was silent for a few seconds, long enough that she’d already mentally dismissed him. “Come eat dinner,” he said.

“I don’t have time. Can you send someone up with a tray for me? I’ll eat here.”

“No. Come to dinner, Sebastien. I doubt whatever knowledge you can cram into the next three days, much less the next thirty minutes, will make a significant difference. You need food for stamina, and Sharon and the others worked hard on this meal, partly to congratulate you. Besides, we can talk about best practices when being interviewed while we eat. As long as you passed, the panel of professors has complete authority over the decision to admit you, so it will be all about impressing them. Not just with your knowledge, but with your mannerisms, and the way you answer their questions.”

Sebastien stood without a moment’s further hesitation, striding past Dryden and down the hallway to the stairs. She looked back over her shoulder to where he was still standing. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go eat.”

With a small chuckle, he followed.

“So tell me about the oral exam. Should I go into auxiliary detail when answering the questions, or keep it succinct? Will they ask questions specifically to trip me up, ones with no right answer, or a very specific type of answer they’re looking for, rather than a solution based on logic? Or is it going to be questions to try to determine my background and character, rather than my knowledge?”

Still sounding slightly amused, he answered, and dinner took longer than usual because they talked so much throughout it.

Three days later, Sebastien returned to the University. She was sitting in the reception area marked on her token and watching as each prospective student entered the double doors before her. None who entered returned through the same door, likely to keep the rest of them from questioning those who had finished about what the professors had asked.

She reviewed every topic she could think of and remembered the lessons her grandfather had taught her about confidence and deportment. ‘Never let them see weakness, girl,’ his voice whispered in her mind. Dryden would agree with him.

When it was finally her turn, she pushed open the doors boldly, her chin high as her gaze swept over the room. She closed the doors behind herself, then walked to the center of the room, not too quickly, and not too slowly. She focused so hard, she was halfway to channeling Will despite the lack of a spell to cast.

“State your name,” the professor in the middle called in a bored tone.

“Sebastien Siverling,” she said, her tongue rolling smoothly over the words, as if the name really were her own.

The professors, except for Thaddeus Lacer, who sat at the end of the table, farthest away from the door, and was busy rifling through the test in front of him, examined her with varying levels of interest.

“Green five-fifteen,” the professor in the center said.

A couple of the others grimaced slightly and seemed to lose what minor interest they’d shown her.

‘They’re already weary,’ she realized, looking at their wan expressions and the way they leaned back in their chairs or crossed their arms over their chests. The only one who still seemed to be fully alert or interested in her written test beyond the score itself was Professor Lacer. They weren’t the only panel of professors in charge of the verbal examinations, but, with the number of potential applicants, they would’ve still been doing this for weeks already, and must have spoken to hundreds, if not thousands of students before her. ‘This is not the best placement. I might’ve been better received if I’d been earlier in the queue,’ she thought with a tightening in her chest.

The professor closest to the door, an overweight man with an elaborately braided beard, suddenly spoke. “List all of the known base natural elements and their common interactions.”

Sebastien took a deep breath, partially to buy time to organize her thoughts. “The base natural elements are copper, lead, gold, silver, iron, carbon, tin, sulfur, mercury, zinc…” She continued speaking until she ran out of breath on the final element, “…and celerium.” She took another deep breath and began to speak about the common interactions. Dryden had assured her that a little showing off never hurt, and as long as she didn’t go too far, would only aid her cover as a rich young man from a family wealthy enough to afford the University. “Iron and oxygen react together, usually in the presence of water, to form rust. This is a form of corrosion. When exposed to a source of heat powerful enough, a source of carbon such as wood will react along with oxygen and combust, creating fire, which releases heat, light, and other oxidized products such as smoke and ash. Wood ash contains lye, which can be filtered out in water and heated with fat to create a soap, which is a surfactant, meaning the new element will dissolve in both water and oil.” She continued on for several minutes, wishing she had a more organized way to remember the elemental interactions besides simply spewing out whatever popped into her head next.

The instructor stopped her before she was finished. He didn’t give any indication of satisfaction, but neither did he seem dissatisfied. “That is all from me,” he said.

The next professor leaned back, crossing her arms in front of her chest and peering at Sebastien with eyes of an unnaturally bright green color. “On the Isles of Coldpine, the monks strengthen their bodies until a sword will break against their skin and their fingers can carve out a furrow from the hide of an earth-aspected weta. They use no sorcery, witchcraft, or magical battle artifacts to achieve this. Tell me how they do it.”

Sebastien stared at her blankly. She’d never heard of the Isles of Coldpine or the monks on it. She turned her focus inward, thinking furiously. ‘How would someone use magic, but not sorcery, witchcraft, or a battle artifact, to enhance their bodies like that?’ She knew she couldn’t hesitate too long if she wanted to impress the professors, but she truly had no idea. “They train extensively,” she said aloud, trying to sound confident, “from a young age. During the course of their training, they imbue their bodies with magic until it is bound to the flesh itself. I…” She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I imagine there are multiple ways it could be done. Repetitive chants to gather magic while they practice, beasts fought in a spelled combat ring that imbues the winner with the strength or characteristics of the loser, perhaps even glyphs carved into their bodies to draw in energy from their surroundings.”

The woman’s lips thinned. “You imagine. You do not know.”

Sebastien’s shoulders pulled back even tighter and she gave the older woman a shallow bow, chin-length blonde hair falling in front of her face. “I do not know. But I am eager to learn.”

The woman’s lips lost some of their tightness. “I have no more questions.”

The next professor in line Sebastien recognized. It was Munchworth, the man she and her father had gone to meet when they first arrived in Gilbratha, hoping he would be willing to sponsor her through the University, or at least put in a kind word for her with the other professors.

Instead, he had sneered and mocked them. His greying hair was thick and fashionably swept back, but his chin was weak and he had a constant nervous twitch, some part of his body always jerking.

Sebastien had trouble keeping her own lips from pulling back into a sneer. She didn’t know if she entirely succeeded, judging from the sour look on Professor Munchworth’s face.

“Who were the most influential figures involved in border skirmishes over the last fifty years?”

“Thaddeus Lacer, Raisa—” She cut off as the professor at the end lowered the test papers and raised his head at the sound of his name.

Professor Lacer looked over at Professor Munchworth, what might have been a very faint smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

She swallowed and continued, listing a handful of people.

Professor Munchworth wasn’t satisfied. “What were the causes of the Third Empire’s success and eventual downfall?”

This question required more thought. She hadn’t read about the Third Empire in preparation for the test, but she remembered her grandfather talking about that time. “The Third Empire came from beyond the northern ice oceans about three hundred years ago, when skirmishes between this continent’s countries had just settled, leaving our armies weak and many of our cities struggling to provide food from razed fields and orchards. The Blood Emperor was one of the most powerful thaumaturges alive, an Archmage with Grandmastery in several crafts, including blood magic, which was the signature of his Empire. His armies were well-trained, well-armed, and we had no good defense against the blood magics, which decimated our forces only to strengthen theirs with the Sacrifice.”

Thaddeus Lacer was watching with interest.

“The Third Empire ruled the entire continent, including Lenore, for over one hundred years, ruthlessly crushing the first rebellions,” she continued. “The Blood Emperor placed a lot of emphasis on advancements in magic, and is credited with a lot of the modern evolution of sorcery. After the disappearance of the Emperor, a struggle for leadership among his generals destabilized his regime. The individual countries of the continent, each of which had benefited from the Blood Emperor’s initiatives to spread organized magic and had grown powerful again under his rule, banded together to overthrow the Third Empire. They attempted to form a Council, but infighting splintered the group and our countries split. Most of the Council still agreed to ban blood magic, after which they scoured the continent of the Blood Emperor’s abominations and those who practiced that craft.”

Professor Munchworth’s glower had grown increasingly dark as she spoke. “The Third Emperor did not disappear. He died at the hands of a Lenorean assassin. As for his advancements in magic? He approved horrible experiments upon humans, on children. Blood and offal ran in channels from the door of his palace. He deserves no credit for our current progress. I have to wonder, was the Siverling family not able to afford competent tutors?”

Sebastien shoved angry words back down her throat. “I apologize if I have spoken without care. I am the sole remaining member of the Siverling family, and I’m sure my tutors did the best they could,” she said, hoping the man would feel awkward enough to stave off any other attacks.

“Hmph. Rank the magical discoveries of the last two hundred years in order of importance.” He raised his eyebrows triumphantly.

Sebastien wanted to smack the smug expression off his face, even more so because she knew he had caught her. Though some innovations stood out, she couldn’t even be sure of listing all the discoveries of the last two centuries, let alone ranking them in order of importance. She did her best, but her chest clenched with each small growth of Munchworth’s smile.

When she was finished, he settled back in his chair. “Entirely incorrect. I have no more questions.”

The female professor after him had short-cropped hair and nails, and her fingers and forearms were covered in knife and burn scars—all signs of an accomplished alchemist. Her question confirmed Sebastien’s guess. “What are the useful parts of a gregorian snail?”

“All of them,” Sebastien responded immediately.

Professor Lacer gave a small snort of amusement.

Sebastien hurried to clarify. “Generally, all parts of a magical animal have some use. The mucus can be used as a thickening agent in most salves and lotions, especially those meant for the face. The shell can be ground down…” Her explanation trailed off as the professor waved her hand.

“You are correct, no need to continue,” the woman said. “List three battle potions.”

“Smoke cloud, liquid fire, and…blood clotter.”

“Blood clotter?”

“It is not an offensive potion, but still very useful on a battlefield. It allows soldiers to wait on medical attention without bleeding to death from certain types of wounds.”

“No more questions.”

The man next to her wore defensive bracers and a spelled breastplate, even in the safety of the University, and looked like he could walk around on his fingertips without strain. “If the Blood Emperor were still alive today, how would you fight him?”

“I would not,” she said without considering how her words would be received.

The professors shifted, frowns growing on their faces.

Professor Lacer had put down her test entirely and was staring at her, now.

‘Stupid, idiotic, thoughtless,’ she mentally berated herself. ‘You aren’t in a lesson with Grandfather. You cannot simply blurt out your thoughts without censoring them. This examination determines your future.’ The pressure must have been getting to her even more than was obvious. She thought quickly to come up with a reasonable explanation for what she had said. The real reason—sensible, rational cowardice toward a figure who might not just kill her, but even use her as a still-living spell component—would have likely seen her denied and tossed out. “I have no battle experience. If I attempted to fight the Blood Emperor directly, I would die immediately,” she tried, hoping that didn’t sound too bad.

The professor with the armor didn’t seem satisfied. “You understand that it is Crown law that all licensed thaumaturges must oppose any use of blood magic, and stand against its practitioners?”

Sebastien pressed her hands to her sides, keeping her fists from clenching in frustration. “Of course. I am willing to do my duty, and if there is no other recourse, I would of course fight against any blood magic practitioner directly. However, if the Blood Emperor were to appear before me, I believe it would be most effective for me to immediately alert the Crowns and local law enforcement, who might have a chance to actually do something against him.” She was mostly telling the truth, despite her willingness to use minor blood magics like the raven messenger spell. That had been cruel, to be sure, but she would never sacrifice a human, or pursue whatever other evil spells blood magic allowed. The Blood Emperor would be a danger to them all. She just wasn’t so foolish as to get herself killed for no benefit. She could find a way to report the danger once she reached Gilbratha’s closest neighboring city.

The man crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, still frowning. “What is the most important resource for an army?”

‘Is this a trick question?’ Aloud, she said simply, “Magic.” With it, one could provide all other resources, though of course not without cost.

His frown did not disappear. “I have heard all I need.”

The next professor, a thin, dark-skinned man, wore thick glasses with gold rims covered in little knobs and dials, an artifact of some sort. “If you mix red light and green light together, what color do you see when shining said light on surfaces painted black, white, red, and green?”

Her heart sank. She knew mixing light was different than mixing paint, and that was as far as her understanding went. She muddled through the answer as best she could, but the professor simply shook his head when she was finished.

“What would you do if the containment glyph on a cold-box artifact meant for fluid preservation was damaged? Please note the dangers you would face.”

Dryden had seemed confident they wouldn’t ask questions an untrained sorcerer couldn’t answer, but surely this was practical knowledge she couldn’t have gained legally? She did her best to answer the question, nevertheless, and once again was judged with a disappointed head shake.

Her fingertips were trembling. She pressed them against the sides of her legs to disguise any outward sign of her inner state.

The man turned his glasses-obscured gaze to Professor Lacer, wordlessly turning the last of the questioning over to him.

Lacer stared at her silently for an uncomfortably long time, till even the professors seemed to think it strange, shooting him curious or irritated glances. Finally, he waved his hand.

Sebastien jumped as the wall behind her moved, a panel sliding away to reveal a swiveling blackboard mounted on an axle. ‘Is there some sort of monitoring spell tied into the blackboard waiting for him to motion at it and activate the sliding panel? Or did I just see a casual display of free-casting?’ She tried not to let her eyes widen too much.

“Show me how you would create a blue-burning fireball that will follow wherever you walk, floating above and slightly behind you, while avoiding contact with obstacles or living creatures,” he said, motioning to the stick of chalk strapped to the edge of the slate blackboard. “You can simply use glyphs to indicate any components or Sacrifices.”

She moved over to the board and picked up the chalk. The array for a spell like that would be complicated, especially with all the conditions he had included. She’d never done anything like it.

“You have two minutes,” Professor Lacer added in a bored tone.

Sebastien still didn’t start drawing. A mistake would mean she needed to erase parts and re-draw them, which would cost her even more time. When she had a basic idea, she drew the main Circle, no bigger than her fist, and then a triangle within it. She connected that to a component Circle almost as tall as she was, meant to gather ambient heat from the air, and if it was there, light as well, as the Sacrifice for the flame. She didn’t have the time to create detailed instructions for the fire production, simply writing the glyphs for “light” and “fire” in the circles, which were not perfectly round since she had no tools besides the chalk itself. That was the easiest part of the spell.

She wrote instructions for the fire’s behavior within in a ring around the main Circle, in full words rather than glyphs and numerological symbols. It was sloppy, but she would need reference texts to create the array, otherwise.

“Stop,” Thaddeus Lacer commanded.

Taking the chalk from the board, Sebastien looked at the sloppy mess of a spell array before her and wanted to cry. Surely, this couldn’t be what he wanted. It would follow behind her only if she carried the blackboard with her, and she wasn’t sure if her method to cause the flame to float outside of the main Circle and above her head would work. But with only two minutes, how could she do better?

“Do you have experience as a sorcerer?” he asked.

‘Is that a trick question?’ She turned toward him. “Practicing magic without a license is illegal,” she said. “However, as a child I had a…teacher, who gave me practical demonstrations by performing the spells he taught me about.” It was partially true, at least. An avoidance rather than an outright lie.

Professor Lacer was inscrutable, but Professor Munchworth snorted and said, “If you ever had a teacher, either they were incompetent, or you are a simpleton. Your grounding in the basics is scattered and disjointed. When you don’t know the right answer, instead you try to conceive of it from whole cloth. It’s the kind of sloppy thinking that gets you and those around you killed. Your attitude is lacking. I have heard enough, I think. I call for the vote.”

Professor Lacer was still watching her with that dark gaze, but said nothing.

When no one protested, Munchworth continued. “Three votes against is a fail. All for?” He didn’t raise his own hand, and neither did the man who had asked her about fighting the Blood Emperor or the one with the artifact glasses.

Professor Lacer didn’t move, either, but he continued to stare at her.

‘Four against,’ she counted silently. Sebastien’s heart sank into her churning stomach like a rock. She stood there for a moment as the room went fuzzy in front of her eyes and she felt like she might pass out. Shame and horror warred within her for dominance. If she couldn’t enter the University, how was she to repay her debt to Katerin? How was she to learn magic? How was she ever to become more than she was, to move past the feeble scrabbling for knowledge and power that had characterized her life for the last six years?

Heat rose up from her belly, bringing her heart pounding with it. “No,” she said simply.

Professor Lacer leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table and his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. “What was that?”

“No,” she said again. “You cannot fail me. I deserve to learn here. I may not have the foundation of knowledge I need yet. I know that. It’s why I am here. I may not have the social connections of some of your other students, either.” She looked to Professor Lacer, thinking of the rude, rich boy, who they never would have treated like this. “Nevertheless, I have what is truly important. I can learn whatever you put before me, given only a bit of time and the resources to do so. I have—”

“Silence!” This time, it was the artificer who spoke. “Our decision has been made. Do not disrespect this council, if you wish to find yourself before us again next year. Perhaps by then, you will have learned enough to pass our examination.”

His words did nothing to cow her. If anything, they fanned the inferno of rage within her. The small part of her that was screaming for her to put away her pride and practice caution was burned away. “No,” she said again, her voice deepening, hoarse with outrage.

The artificer’s face settled into a glare, and he reached into the inner pocket of his vest, pulling out a glimmering wand. A simple flick, and she felt a blanket of stillness settle over her, dampening the air as if she were standing in a bubble of water. No sound reached her.

‘Now they will not even let me plead my case?’

The professor who sat closest to the door got up and opened it to wave for one of the proctors outside, no doubt for them to come and drag her away like those who had been caught cheating in the written examination.

‘It’s over,’ she thought, with the same despair she might have felt if someone had told her she would never walk again. And then, one last time, ‘No. If I cannot tell them, I will show them.’ She turned back to the sloppy array behind her, and with the crash of her Will against the world, activated it.

She was standing too close to the large component Circle, and felt an immediate chill as it began to suck heat from her flesh. She stepped even closer, putting most of her body in its range. She would need serious heat to power a flame hot enough to turn blue. She focused on a spot in the air above her, glaring at it as she guided the energy of the spell. A tiny flame burst to life, hanging on nothing.

The chalk spell array glowed with the wasted energy, and she clamped down even harder on it, till the only thing in her mind was the fire. The sphere meant to power the flame darkened like a bubble of shadow enclosing half the blackboard, most of her body, and the surrounding air. But the flame brightened from orange to yellow, and then to blue. She shivered violently, but forced herself to remain standing and otherwise put it out of her mind.

The flame floated closer and circled around her head. When she took a step, it followed behind her.

She brought it back around to her head, and forced it to avoid her hand as she swiped at it, the warmth—such a contrast to her frozen fingers—burning even from inches away.

She turned back to the professors, belatedly realizing that the silencing spell had fallen away. “I have the Will,” she said simply. She released the flame, which died immediately. Her numb legs gave out, and she collapsed gently to the floor, sitting and staring up at the semicircle of professors, some of whom had stood. The door was still open, held forgotten by the professor who had been calling for a proctor, and a group of prospective students stared into the room.

Professor Munchworth glared at her. “Leave. You are expelled from the test. Do not return—”

Professor Lacer, still sitting, cleared his throat. “I am overriding the panel’s decision.”

The others turned to him in apparent shock.

Before anyone could speak, he continued. “I believe I get one every year, correct? It will be him.” He turned to Sebastien, whose extremities, except for her feet, which had been out of range of the large Sacrifice Circle, had started to burn.

She was almost too tired to shiver.

“You will be required to take one or two classes determined by me each term. In this case, it will be my class, Practical Will-based Casting. You will take no more than six classes in the coming term. My authority in this, and all other areas of your formal education, will continue throughout your stay at the University, and you will be required to perform to my satisfaction to maintain your status as a student. Do you accept?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “I accept.”

He nodded and gave her the most muted of smiles. “Welcome to the University. Report to me after class on the first day. Now get out.”

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note: I’d like to give a sincere thank you to my Patrons. I appreciate you helping to make this story possible.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-13-objects-in-mirror/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 13 - Objects in Mirror

Sebastien

Month 10, Day 16, Friday 1:00 p.m.

Instead of escorting her off University premises, the proctor the bearded professor had called helped her to her feet and out of the only other door in the room. No students waited on the other side, just another proctor standing behind a desk. She handed Sebastien a partial map of the University. “Go to the library. Administration is to the right once you walk in the main doors.”

Sebastien stumbled her way there, pausing to gasp in wonder as she realized the line connecting the main building—the Citadel—to the library was actually a walkway surrounded in glass, like a little tunnel. ‘This must have cost thousands of gold crowns.’ She looked up to the sun as it peeked out from behind clouds. Where the rays hit the glass, the light fragmented into rainbow bursts. It was bewitching, and she stood there and stared until the clouds covered the sun again.

When she reached the end of the tunnel, she stopped in awe once again.

She stood in the library. The entranceway opened up into a large circle of white marble flooring. The staircases reached up three levels, which were open in the center to let the shimmering, spelled glass of the domed ceiling shine down. Beyond the inner open area, which had a couple desks attended by employees, the bookcases stretched off for hundreds of feet. She even saw a couple staircases leading down below the ground.

She tried to do a quick calculation of how many books the library must contain, but quickly lost her place. She shook her head, still feeling woozy from pushing herself too hard. ‘More books than I can read in a year, that much I know. More books than I could read in a lifetime, perhaps.’ Her cheeks were hot, and she realized belatedly that she was grinning like a madman.

A young man about her age leaned over and waved his arm slowly in front of her, a consternated look on his face. “Hello?” he said.

She realized then that he’d been trying to get her attention. Perhaps for a while. She cleared her throat. “Yes?”

“New student?” he asked, some understanding tingeing the smile he gave her. “It is amazing, I know. You aren’t the first to have such a reaction. Perhaps, when you’re in your fourth term, you can get an assistant position here.”

She nodded, trying to contain the cold shivers that were still attacking in waves. She’d drawn warmth from more than her extremities.

“You’ll find the admissions office through there.” He pointed, eyeing her with a little more worry. “They handle contribution points, student tokens, the mail room, that kind of thing. You can choose your classes and set up payment arrangements there.”

She nodded gratefully to him and walked through the door he indicated, where a bored-looking man gave her a pen, which she struggled to hold with her frozen fingers. “Choose your classes,” the man said, sliding a piece of paper forward. “No more than seven, no less than the four mandatory classes. Fifty gold for each class.” He asked for her name, then burnt it into a rectangular wooden token on a leather strap. Her University student token. Proof that she was admitted here. She ran her thumb over the sky kraken burnt into the back of it, the soothing smell of charred wood making her smile.

When she stared blankly at the signup sheet, the man sighed softly. “No need to be frightened, boy. The professors may be intimidating, but you passed. You should have gone over the list of classes and made your choices already. Do you not know what you wish to take?”

She shook her head. “I know what I want to take.” The scroll the admissions attendant had given her before hadn’t had the names of the professors who taught each class. Now, she stared down at the words “Grandmaster Thaddeus Lacer” next to the class he had told her to take, “Introduction to Practical Will-based Casting.” He was the teacher.

She marked her selections shakily. A few of the others were mandatory for all first term students: Introduction to Modern Magic, Natural Science, Sympathetic Science, and History of Magic. She also chose Defensive Magic, even though she would have preferred Alchemy or Artificery, because Dryden had warned her that all the more “high-class” students took Defensive Magic, and she would seem strange if she didn’t. That brought her to the maximum number of classes Lacer had allowed.

Then she signed a paper that said she would bring payment to the University the next day; her family background wasn’t prestigious enough for them to finalize her acceptance without gold in hand.

Watching her shiver with a worried expression, the man fed her papers through a magic spell array, which fed out another piece of paper with her class schedule. When she stumbled off, he called out after her. “Classes start in two weeks! Orientation and dormitory assignments are the day before, at four o’clock. Don’t be late.”

Sebastien warmed up significantly on the long walk back to Dryden Manor, even with the damp chill of ocean in the air. Despite that, she felt worse than ever. ‘How could I have done something so outrageously, idiotically, asinine?’ In the heat of the moment, in front of the professors, desperation and shame had led to rage, and the rage had overwhelmed her. She wasn’t used to being ridiculed or dismissed, even by those thaumaturges she had met in her travels.

Now, thinking back to her actions caused her an almost physical pain. ‘What was I thinking?’A few insults and some rudeness were nothing in the face of her ability to learn magic. She should have taken it all with a smile on her face, walked away, and tried the test again next year. ‘I was about to be banned from re-testing! I had a tantrum, like a spoiled child.’ Her grandfather had said more than once, “Pride is the life of a sorcerer, and oftentimes their death, too.”

‘If I had been denied, but not banned, I might have been able to pay someone like Liza what I would have otherwise given the University in exchange for apprenticing with her till next year.’ She could only get down on her knees and thank the source of magic that Professor Lacer had stood up for her and used his single power of veto over the council. By the time she reached Dryden Manor, her fingers were shaking with shame rather than cold. ‘If I do not have the power to stand against a Titan, I must learn to bow my head before it.’

After the front door had closed behind her, she leaned against it, holding her head in her hands. As if the self-reflection had opened a dam, she shuddered as a new thought hit her. “I could have died,” she whispered aloud, wondering how she hadn’t considered that part of her foolishness until now.

How many times had Grandfather warned her about being too close to the Sacrifice Circle? Magic was dangerous. If her attention had slipped for even a moment while she was within it, more than just warmth might have been taken from her. If the glyphs for “heat” and “light” had not been written clearly within it, perhaps she would have been cored like an apple anyway. When you didn’t have enough of the specified power source, but kept pushing Will into the spell anyway, the magic often found something else to eat, at a much less efficient rate.

She lowered her hands and looked up to find Sharon, Dryden’s cook, staring at her awkwardly from the entrance to the house proper.

When Sebastien met her gaze, the woman bowed hastily. “Welcome back, Mr. Siverling. Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine,” Sebastien sighed. “No thanks to myself.”

Sharon cleared her throat, obviously unsure how to respond to that.

“Is Mr. Dryden here?” Sebastien asked.

“Mr. Dryden was called away. He left in a hurry about an hour ago. I don’t know when he’ll be returning.”

Sebastien nodded, shuffling toward the staircase. “Call me when dinner is ready, please. I’m going to take a nap.” She didn’t hear the woman’s response. She was too tired to think clearly. ‘Will-strain, again.’

She woke herself by flailing out of bed and onto the floor. The press of cool marble against her cheek contrasted sharply against the racing of her heart, and she relaxed. ‘This is what happens when I forget to cast my dreamless sleep spell. Not that I was in any shape to do so this afternoon.’ Still, she felt better than she had before sleeping, though her stomach grumbled with an empty ache.

Slowly and stiffly, as if she had aged fifty years since that morning, she stood and moved to look at herself in the small silver mirror on the wall. She was used to Sebastien’s face, and her own dark eyes looked out of it the same as always, but she had to force herself to meet her gaze past the shame.

From her pack, which she kept loaded and ready to go whenever she wasn’t using the items within, just in case, she pulled her grimoire.

She sat down with a fountain pen at the table by the window and stared at the blank page for a while, thinking of what to write. Mostly, the grimoire was for magic, or anything tangentially related to magic that Siobhan thought interesting or useful, but she wrote about other things as well. ‘If this isn’t a lesson I should remember, I have never had one.’ She set her pen to the page and began to write, thinking quickly. Her pen moved methodically, carefully carving the lesson into the paper, and hopefully, into her mind as well.

‘The world is cruel, and hard, and I cannot expect any help beyond what I seize for myself. If I am ever to meet my goals, I need to be better. If I am to keep my pride, I must pair it with deep, extensive preparation and a level of skill that matches it. I must look for and take advantage of any opportunity afforded me, and where one does not yet exist, make my own. I cannot be complacent. If I am to live long enough to become an Archmage, I cannot be suicidally stupid. Magic is to be respected. Grandfather would be ashamed to have seen me today.

‘Munchworth is a feeble-minded, narcissistic lout. The others who voted against me are lacking discernment, obviously. But there’s no future in telling your nominal superior they are being an ass. It may be true, but people, as a rule, do not cope well with unpleasant truths.’ It wasn’t the first time her sharp, impulsive tongue had gotten her into trouble, but this time had been particularly stupid, and paired with some magic that could have easily killed her.

She set down her pen and made her way downstairs to the kitchen, where Sharon turned with a surprised smile and said, “Oh, Mr. Siverling! I was just fixin’ to come get you. The food’s ready, but I haven’t heard from Mr. Dryden.”

Sebastien ate enough for both herself and Dryden combined while telling the servants about the awe-inspiring University, which none of them had ever visited personally.

By the time the servants went home, Dryden still hadn’t returned, and Sebastien grew a little worried. He was a grown man and could surely take care of himself, but Sharon had said he left in a hurry, which likely meant something was wrong. She hoped whatever it was had nothing to do with her or Ennis.

Sebastien grabbed one of the study books she had bought and worked through it in the kitchen. Before classes started, she planned to read through all of them again, and hopefully a few more besides. She had to catch up to the other students, or Professor Lacer might change his mind.

Dryden stumbled through the door well after dark, exhausted and smeared with what seemed to be ash and blood.

She stood in the door to the kitchen, and he stopped when he saw her. “Mr. Dryden. What happened?” she asked.

“My people are being harassed by a rival organization.” His tone was plain and tired.

“Your people?”

He sighed deeply. “You are intelligent, Sebastien. I doubt I need to tell you that Katerin reports to me, as do the people under her. I run an organization, some of whose operations are outside the constraints of the law.”

“I suspected as much.”

He nodded, rubbing his hands over his jaw. Dryden grimaced as he scratched away a spot of blood. “The Morrow gang controlled the majority of southern Gilbratha before I moved here and began my own operation.” He spun around and paced back and forth, waving his hands through the air as he spoke. “My policies are different, more humane, more sustainable. I am trying to create something good here. The people prefer my name, my protection. The Morrows are losing subjects and money, and along with that comes loss of face. They’re trying to drive me away and make the people fear to join me. For the last several months, they’ve been harassing my organization and those under its protection, but tonight…tonight they went too far. They attacked a stall that bore our symbol, injured the worker and his family, and burned his livelihood to the ground. His wife almost died.” He stopped walking, staring down at the blood that had dried in the creases of his hands. He looked up to Sebastien. “Tell me, what would you do in my position? How would you stop this?”

Her first instinct was to tell him to retaliate, to attack the Morrows in retribution. She remembered what she had done earlier, though, and didn’t say the words aloud. Overwhelming power only acted as a deterrent if it was truly overwhelming, and if that was the case, the Morrows likely wouldn’t have attacked Dryden’s people in the first place. Escalation would merely lead to more innocents bearing the cost. Still, he couldn’t simply stand for this, or it would continue till he was crushed. “What about the coppers? Is it not their job to protect the citizens, no matter the symbol on their stalls?”

Dryden snorted. “The coppers find themselves uninterested in arriving in time to help. I got there sooner than they did, from halfway across the city. If my people had relied on the coppers, the woman would be dead.”

She nodded, frowning and staring into the distance as she ran through ideas in her mind.

He waited for her to speak.

Finally, she said, “You must be able to provide the protection you’ve promised. If the coppers won’t do it, you’ll need a force of your own that can act in their stead. I imagine this is illegal. However…if these people had a way to call for your aid directly, and knew that you would arrive both promptly and well-prepared, the coppers might never be summoned at all. It would be best if people in your territory could contact you immediately, as soon as they have a need. Without magic of their own to do so…”

Sebastien absently pulled her Conduit from one of her many pockets and rolled it around her slender fingers. “Perhaps an alarm ward of some sort, one set up in such a way as to alert you immediately to the danger. It would have to provide you their location as well…” She returned her attention to Dryden. “Of course, you would need people trained, supplied, and able to respond immediately.”

He nodded slowly, seeming a little less exhausted than he had before. “I agree. You’re hired. Talk to Katerin about the gold and resources you’ll need to set up the ward, as well as the price for your work. It will be the first piece of your debt, repaid.”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head rapidly. “Oh, no. I wasn’t… You’ll need someone more skilled than I am to set this up. The ward would need to be expansive and complicated. It needs to be easily accessible to any citizen, easily triggered, link immediately to the alarm that will alert your response force, and contain information about the emergency… I don’t know enough about ward triggers or communication spells to do this properly.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Speak to Katerin about acquiring books on both subjects. She’s no Master, but she has a few magical connections and some small talent herself, though mostly in alchemy.”

Sebastien remained unconvinced.

He gave her a small smile that was irritatingly smug. “The payment for a project of this size should be thirty to forty gold, and we will give you time to complete it.”

She remembered the blood print vow she’d given, and the chest of borrowed gold, already much depleted. Really, she couldn’t say no. “Alright. I’ll do my best. Forty-five gold.”

Dryden grinned, then stumbled past her and up the stairs. Halfway up, he stopped and turned to her. “Oh! Did you manage to pass the entrance exam?”

She nodded silently. She had nothing to brag about, there.

“Good. I’ll send an escort with you tomorrow when you go to pay the fee. It never hurts to be cautious when large amounts of gold are involved.” He continued on up the stairs without looking back.

Sebastien was left in the foyer, alone. ‘At least I have a chance to learn real magic while working on this project. I wonder how many books on the subject I can convince Katerin to buy me?’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-14-simple-wards-foreign-ideas/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 14 - Simple Wards & Foreign Ideas

Siobhan

Month 10, Day 25, Sunday 9:00 a.m.

Over a week later, Siobhan found herself once again in her female form, doing something illegal. Having said that, she was doing it in broad daylight, accompanied by helpers and bodyguards, and none of the curious citizens who passed seemed to hold the slightest fear toward her, so it didn’t feel quite the same.

Katerin had taken her into one of the back rooms of the Verdant Stag and used the alchemy set-up there to turn a thick lock of Siobhan’s hair white. “The powerful female sorcerer everyone is looking for does not have a streak of grey in her hair,” the woman said, ignoring Siobhan’s disgruntled pout as she ran the bleaching solution through the strands. “When people see the grey, it’s what they will notice most about you, because it stands out. That, along with a change from those raggedy clothes you were wearing and a few other tweaks, and even if people recognize the resemblance, as long as you act confident and forthright, as if you’ve nothing to be afraid of, they will assume you truly do have nothing to be afraid of. People will convince themselves of the simplest solution to their confusion. Lead them in the right direction, and nine times out of ten you have won.”

Siobhan once again wore the black and red suit that Dryden had given her, this time without the dramatic cloak. Her now mostly black hair was bound up into a bun so high and tight it gave her a headache, she wore horn-rimmed glasses that looked like they had been taken from the desk of a school-teacher, and the Verdant Stag gang symbol—the same one on the signpost of the inn from where Katerin and Dryden based most of their operations—was proudly displayed on the bright green cloth tied around her bicep.

Theo, the copper-haired boy who had thought she was disguised as a homeless person when they first met, gave her transformation a serious once-over when she emerged into the inn’s common room, then gave her a big grin and two thumbs up.

She squinted at the boy, pushing the glasses up her nose. ‘Does he know who I am? Last time, I met him as Sebastien. Perhaps he heard something from Katerin or Dryden. Or perhaps he’s this friendly to everyone.’

Theo bounced up to her and immediately proved her wrong, sweeping into a comically deep bow with a flourish like a performer. “Hello, Sorceress. I heard all about your escape from the University. Everyone’s been talking about it, you know, even more than Big Bjornson getting drunk and running right through the wall of the inn and into the river.”

Katerin slapped her hand to her face and drug it downward. “Theo. How?” Her voice sounded as if she were in physical pain.

He looked up at her, eyes wide and innocent. “It was obvious.”

Siobhan looked down at herself. “I cannot go out in public, if that’s the case. Perhaps you should whiten the rest of my hair as well.”

Theo shrugged. “You’ll probably be fine like you are. Not everyone seems to think, you know? Plus they don’t know that Katerin and Mr. Oliver were looking for you after your amazing adventure. Plus, everyone is expecting you to look much more…” He trailed off, looking embarrassed. “Interesting,” he finished, his voice much lower.

Katerin sighed deeply. “Have you finished your chores, Theo?” she asked, her tone threatening to lose its patience.

The boy’s eyes widened comically, and he scampered off without answering.

“He is certainly…observant,” Siobhan said.

“I cannot keep anything from him, even when I dearly wish to do so. Some things that go on around here aren’t fit for a little boy to know about.” She shook her head after the child. “Even if someone does recognize you, we have even odds on them refusing to tell the coppers. The Crowns and their agents are not well-loved this far south, where both money and good-will are in short supply. If there is trouble, all you need do is run. We’ve more than a few escape routes planned through this city for our own people, and you’re one of us now, yes?” She looked at the bright green antlers painted on the band around Siobhan’s arm.

“Truly? The bounty on my capture is one hundred gold crowns. I’d think that would overcome any dislike for the coppers.”

Katerin smirked. “One hundred gold is not enough to purchase your life back from the Verdant Stag once they have placed a kill order on your head. It wouldn’t be worth it.”

Siobhan narrowed her eyes. “A kill order? You seem to be going to great lengths for a single untrained sorcerer.” ‘Perhaps you’re trying to get me caught, for some reason. But how would that actually benefit you, especially as it would connect me to you?’ This unspoken thought sparked another idea. “Perhaps that actually is the point. You wish to show off your connection to a seemingly powerful sorceress, to those clever enough to notice my true identity?”

Katerin shrugged. “Magic is useful, Siobhan. It’s also a coveted and limited resource, especially when you’re working outside the purview of the Crowns. Oliver judged the safety of his people more important than the slight chance of you being recognized and reported, with an even smaller chance that you would be captured, even then. We’re not being reckless. We’re…” She sighed.

‘Desperate,’ Siobhan finished silently. She reluctantly agreed to the plan, though she insisted on learning all the escape routes so she would be prepared.

Despite her misgivings, it seemed to work. She received her fair share of stares from the citizens in the Verdant Stag’s territory, but since she was accompanied by the red-haired woman and a few other members of what Dryden called an “organization” and Siobhan called a “gang,” no one seemed hostile or even overly suspicious. After the first uneventful day, she stopped expecting a group of coppers to come charging up the street to arrest her.

In fact, she was more disturbed by the filth of the city’s slums than the people. The Verdant Stag itself was a little more than halfway to the south of the city, where the informally named Mires began. The Stag territory stretched into the poorer areas, where people couldn’t afford things like the waste-removing toilets like Dryden had, and even the occasional street cleaner simply dumped the sewage into the closest canal. Human waste lined the streets of the Mires in a sticky, reeking sludge that sucked at the boots like swamp mud. Despite her best efforts, it was impossible to stay entirely clean, and it seemed like the miasma coated the air thick enough to taste it.

She had seen poverty and uncleanliness before, always worse in the cities, but never like this, where the people were packed so tightly together. She doubted many coppers would be patrolling the area unless forced to.

“We’re working on the waste removal,” Katerin said. “It’s a big project, and we’ve had more success in some areas than others.”

With the obvious poverty, Siobhan was surprised to see that some of the shoddy buildings had foundations of stone, and sometimes walls, too. It became a little more common the further south they went. Where it was clean, it was almost white. ‘They must have taken stone from the sunken, broken southern area of the wall to build with. That probably had a lot to do with why it’s so deteriorated now.’ The Mires spilled well beyond what would have once been the confines of the city, with no more than a few scattered sections of what had once been white cliffs still remaining in their midst.

Siobhan had gone through a couple different iterations of the plan for the wards, and finally settled on something simple enough that she could actually implement it, which would hopefully still be effective.

Wards were really just another type of artificery, but because they were so complex a subject on their own, and often implemented differently than other artifacts, they were often categorized as their own sub-craft of magic.

She would have loved to give all of Dryden’s “subjects” a token they could carry on their person and break in an emergency, something that would relay where they were and what was wrong, but she didn’t have the skill to do that, especially not en masse.

Instead, she had counted every street corner within the Verdant Stag’s territory and requested twice that number of bright green banners. The area under Dryden’s control wasn’t as large as she had imagined, only a few dozen square blocks.

Each pair of banners was stamped with a specific location. One would go on the actual street corner, and its pair would hang on the wall of one of the inn’s back rooms, where someone would be on duty at all times.

The banners were attached by a metal ring to a sturdy, waterproof base, which she screwed into the side of buildings or attached to the street lamps, where there were street lamps. When the banner was ripped away from the base, the Circle and spell array she had drawn inside the base would activate, dropping the corresponding banner in the inn and setting off the attached bell.

This method easily relayed where the alarm had been set off, but not what the emergency was. She wasn’t sure what to do about that, but Dryden said he would have his emergency response team ready for as wide a range of scenarios as he could.

She’d considered having different-colored flags for different types of emergencies, but he’d vetoed that. “In the dark, panicked and possibly injured, you cannot expect people to be able to remember and accurately pull the right color. One single flag is better.”

She had spent days studying and designing the spell, and then almost a week creating the dozens and dozens of linked alarms, which had to be tested one by one. The most difficult thing was making sure they would continue to work with minimal maintenance, which was easiest when the Sacrifices were high quality, the Will of the caster was strong, and the Word of the Circle’s array was efficient. She was as confident in their quality as she could be.

Now, they were traveling slowly around Dryden’s section of Gilbratha, setting them up one by one and explaining to everyone they saw what they were doing.

They immediately had to deal with more than a few pranks and test triggers of the alarms, but Siobhan figured that wasn’t her problem.

It surprised her how well-liked Dryden’s people were. Many of the locals who passed by greeted them, and some even stopped to chat.

An older woman complained to Katerin about her grandson being accosted by the coppers, and Katerin sympathized with her grumbling. “Maybe one day, things will change,” she said, smiling gently.

The grandmother sniffed disdainfully. “If so, the Crowns got nothin’ to do with it. I’ve lived in this city since I was a girl, and I tell you, it’s only gettin’ worse. I keep tellin’ him not to go up in them rich districts, but there’s no work here, so what’s a lad to do?”

Katerin laid an arm on the woman’s shoulder. “Tell him to come by the Verdant Stag. The big boss has some plans, and it will mean jobs. Honest jobs. I cannot promise your grandson a spot, but if he’s hired for this, he wouldn’t need to put himself in danger.”

The grandmother gave her heartfelt thanks before shuffling on her way.

A group of men pulled Katerin into discussion about the latest play the inn had put on, sharing ribald jokes about the lead actress that made Katerin roll her eyes.

A mother in worn, sweat-stained clothes shuffled up to Katerin and pulled her aside, speaking in a low voice that Siobhan unashamedly struggled to overhear. The woman’s son had been sick with a fever for days, and that morning she had been unable to wake him.

Katerin said, “The Stag has fever-reducing balms and a revivifying potion. Go to the third floor, the first door on your left.”

“How much? I tried to go to the apothecary, but I couldn’t afford what they had. Two gold for the fever reducer! That was for the potion. The balm was even more expensive. My John has been struggling to find work, you know, and…”

Katerin waved her to silence. “Six silver for the fever balm, and a gold for the revivifying potion. If the balm doesn’t settle it with one jar, come back and the second will be half off. You can tell Alice I said so.”

The mother’s voice grew rough, and she blinked back tears. “Do you sell half doses of the revivifier?”

Siobhan spoke before Katerin could respond. “Landrum’s nourishing draught might see him through it, if he’s not too far gone. A sustaining potion for dysentery patients could also work, if you double the normal amount of water. He likely needs large doses of liquids, anyway. The nourishing draught would be better, if the Stag has it in Landrum’s recipe. Both should be cheaper than the revivifier. If your son doesn’t recover by the time you’ve gone through the whole nourishing draught, I would recommend a healer, as it’s likely a sign that something worse is wrong with him.”

Both women had turned to stare at her.

Siobhan turned away from the bright green flag she’d just finished affixing to the side of the building to meet their gazes. “Also, be sure to boil the water before diluting the potion.”

The mother looked to Katerin for confirmation.

Katerin’s eyebrows were raised, but she nodded. “That should work. We do have the malnutrition nourishing potion. Revivifier and the nourishing potion together would probably be best.” She gently touched the woman’s arm. “Small loans are also available, if you need one.”

The woman bowed to both of them in thanks and hurried off toward the Verdant Stag.

Siobhan frowned. “A fever potion’s ingredients should only cost three silver, even at Gilbratha’s prices. The licensed shops sell them for two gold?”

“Magic means a markup. If you need an item or a spell you cannot achieve yourself, you have no choice but to pay more for it. The licensed shops pay three-tenths in taxes for all magical goods and services. Plus, there has been a shortage on certain supplies within the city, so prices rise. For the poorest, necessary items like healing potions are simply unaffordable. That’s why we produce our own and sell them as needed to individuals, only slightly above cost. One of Oliver’s ideas, and I tell you, I thought it was foolish at first to let gold slip away like that, but when I saw how many people need what we provide and have no way to get it elsewhere, I changed my mind. The Crowns don’t care, so we have to.”

Siobhan looked at those who wore the green antlers of the gang slightly differently after that. ‘That woman’s son may have died of fever without what Katerin offered her. And yet, for selling magical items without a license to do so, Katerin and the others would all be arrested.’ Katerin still held Siobhan’s blood print and a debt of more gold than most families made in two years over her, but some of the wariness Siobhan had been holding toward her slipped away.

“Does ‘at cost,’ include paying for the alchemist’s time?”

“Yes, though sometimes I make a batch or two of something myself, and I don’t charge the Stag for my time. I find it relaxing.”

Siobhan nodded thoughtfully, affixing yet another bright green banner to the edge of a building. “I know how to create a variety of healing potions, salves, and tinctures, and I can follow a recipe for anything I don’t already know. Perhaps you need another brewer?”

Katerin smiled, but nodded without looking at her. “I just might be. I will give you a list of what we need most, along with the prices we pay. Of course, all payments will go towards your debt, so you’ll not see a single coin.”

Siobhan caught the amusement in the other woman’s voice and resisted the urge to send a sharp gust of wind into her back.

Some parts of Oliver’s territory were elevated enough to see out across the Charybdis Gulf, which divided Gilbratha main from the Lilies, the wealthiest part of the city. The Lilies occupied the deep stretch of beach below the arc of the white cliffs where the Crowns lived. A huge spell dome kept the waves and the storms from washing the community away.

As she attached yet another banner to a street lamp missing its crystal, she thought of the poverty she saw around her, contrasted with the faint music she could hear carried over the water from the Lilies, and their gardens of color she could see even from this distance.

When the day’s work was done, their group returned to the Verdant Stag to eat. The food wasn’t as luxurious as what Sharon prepared at Dryden Manor, but it was honestly priced and filling enough.

She sat at a table with Katerin and Mr. Huntley, who hadn’t offered his first name when they met and whose eyes never quite stopped moving. She was pretty sure he was carrying more than one battle wand underneath his suit’s outer jacket.

In fact, she suspected that most of the group sent to help them set up the banners carried similar artifacts, making them a group of battle magicians, though they were likely not thaumaturges themselves. The fact that they wore no obvious token of graduation from the University didn’t bother her. Rather, the protection they signified helped reassure her. None of them had flaunted what they were or the spell-power they controlled, even when a brawl had erupted in a bar near where they worked and they had been forced to intervene. ‘Likely, that means they’re competent.’

Dryden spoke a few sentences to the barmaid as she took his order, and Siobhan noticed how he applied his charm despite the woman’s lack of power or influence. He focused his attention so fully on her she must have felt herself to be the most interesting person in the world. It was not quite flirting, yet the barmaid left with a small bounce in her step and a smile that remained on her face for a long while afterward. When she brought ale to the table, Dryden’s mug was free.

‘Perhaps his ideas about people aren’t so silly. Still, I would have a hard time acting like that all the time.’ Siobhan was well aware that she had trouble keeping her sharp tongue from cutting others.

Her thoughts returned to the downtrodden, desperate poverty of the people too far south of the white cliffs for the powerful to care about, and she shot an assessing glance at Katerin. “You offer goods and services to the people at a fair price,” she said. “And jobs, too.”

Katerin raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Why?”

It was Dryden who answered. “Because we can. We may not be able to fix everything, but it’s a start.”

“It isn’t enough.” Siobhan’s frank words drew attention from those around them. Some of Dryden’s men frowned at her. “From what I’ve seen, you simply don’t have the resources to raise these people out of the shit.”

Huntley snorted at that, but continued to eat and scan the doors and windows.

“They lack more than what you can give them, and there’s a reason for that.”

“And what do you think that reason is?” Dryden asked, moving to sit at the empty seat across from Siobhan.

“There isn’t enough to go around. There never will be. The Crowns have it, the gang leaders and University have it, and that means these people don’t. They’re never going to be strong enough to fight for themselves. So while you’re scrabbling to provide for them, you’re leaving yourself vulnerable to other predators.”

He leaned forward, the serious look on his face not quite disguising the youthful excitement in his eyes. “Your argument is that there isn’t enough wealth to go around, and by spreading some of mine to those who cannot repay it, I am weakening myself?”

Siobhan narrowed her eyes, sensing the trap in his words, but nodded.

“What do you think wealth is? Gold is useful in some spells, but beyond that, it’s not inherently valuable. Gold is not wealth. And wealth is not finite. If someone lives in a nice house, one that doesn’t leave them wet when it rains and keeps them warm in the winter, if they have no fear of going hungry, if they know they’ll have access to healing should an accident or illness befall them, then would that person not meet the criteria of wealth to you? Regardless of whether they’re paying for these things in gold coins or bird feathers?”

She wondered what he was getting at. “Perhaps. Go on.” She dipped her head.

“I posit that wealth is nothing more than a raised standard of living. From there, I propose that what people really need is more jobs—jobs that pay well enough to live on, not simply work themselves into the grave over—more affordable goods and services, and access to education. If you look around you, it’s obvious that my people have many jobs in need of doing, many things they would pay for, if they could afford it. I can attest that there are also plenty of people willing and eager to provide honest labor. The inability to pay for what they need leads to a lack of jobs that pay enough to get by, and so it becomes a vicious cycle.

“You’re very right that this isn’t by coincidence. Opportunities are provided for the few at the expense of the many. But you’re wrong if you think this is the inherent state of reality. You yourself are a good example of this. You deserve opportunity, and are willing to take it when it is presented, even if you weren’t born into it. How many others like you would set their minds to learning, to innovation, if they had the opportunity? The resources of the city—the true resources, the people—are simply being mismanaged. Or, some might say, purposefully restricted by people who are either shortsighted, or those who can see, but are afraid.”

He pressed his hands flat to the table. “And just like with you, I do not help these people with no expectation of receiving value in return. It is better to rule over a land of the wealthy than a land of the poor and desperate. And if one ruled over a land of thaumaturges... Imagine it. Every citizen who was once a pauper now able to read, write, and cast simple spells. No restrictions to learning based on income or connections. A Mastery for everyone who had the dedication and fortitude to achieve one. Advanced education in the natural sciences and other fields for those without an aptitude for magic. A country pushed forward by the innovation of hundreds of thousands of minds rather than a handful of elite with no real interest in change.” Oliver swallowed, glancing around quickly to the other patrons of the inn that had turned to look at him. He slid his hands off the table as he sat back in his chair. His expression loosened, but the intensity was still there in his eyes.

Siobhan’s own heart was beating a little harder, caught up in secondhand excitement, and she forced herself to look away from his gaze. “But that doesn’t address the other gangs, not to mention the Crowns themselves, all who would be happy to see you fail—and some of whom are actively working against you to make sure you do. What can helping these people do about that? Again, I have to say that it doesn’t seem like you have the wealth to make this sustainable. So what’s your answer to that, Mr. Oliver,” she said, avoiding his last name like everyone else associated with the Verdant Stag seemed to do.

“Perhaps, if we all do what we can, small improvements will add up over time into lasting change,” he said, quirking the side of his mouth up in a way that she could not help but see as mocking. Before she could respond, he turned to one of the barmaids and ordered another drink.

‘Did he avoid my question because he has no good answer, or because he simply doesn’t want to reveal that part of his plans?’

They didn’t return to the conversation, instead discussing Dryden’s struggle to find enough people to compose three fully competent emergency response teams, but Siobhan felt the new ideas settle in the back of her mind. ‘His ideas seem naive, and yet—and yet, from what I have learned of him, he isn’t the type to act without some forethought, some scheme. What would a world like he portrayed be like? Would it really be possible for everyone to learn magic as they wished?’ She shook her head with a combination of wistfulness and amusement. Still, the idea was appealing.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

I've been trying to learn about effective altruism to write Oliver. It's really interesting stuff, but I struggle to find time for all the research that needs to be done while also writing at a consistent pace.

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated.

Next chapter on my website:https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-15-dysphoria/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 15 - Dysphoria

Damien

Month 10, Day 29, Thursday 11:00 a.m.

“He’s not even listening, Ana!” a high-pitched voice declared.

“Damien,” Anastasia said, the slight twitch of one eyebrow belying the soft, ladylike smile on her face.

Damien only then realized that he had been in a daze, looking toward the University rankings board that would soon be updated with the scores of all incoming first-term students. “Oh, sorry, Natalia,” he said to the young girl scowling up at him.

Unlike her older sister, she wore a frilly dress, no doubt picked out by their mother. Also unlike her sister, she was a chatterbox, and at some point while listening to her talk about a play date at one of the Gervin Family’s branch houses—offshoots that didn’t stand to inherit—he had lost concentration. “I’m just really anxious to find out if I made the top three hundred or not,” he said.

The girl gave an unappeased “humph!” and crossed her arms over her chest.

Rhett, slouching beside him, turned from making eyes at a blushing young woman in the crowd. “Damien’s boring, Nat. Don’t bother with him anyway. I brought a dueling board, if you want to play.” Despite his friend’s playboy attitude, Rhett had a secret soft spot for children, and somehow never seemed to grow tired of genuine, fully engaged interaction with Natalia or his own younger siblings.

Natalia eyed the small, portable game set Rhett pulled out of a pocket. “Only if I can be Myrddin.”

Rhett nodded easily.

“You’re like a child yourself, playing that game all the time,” Alec sneered. He’d been chewed out by his father for scoring such a low green on the written exam that it required a bribe to get him admitted, and he hadn’t wanted to come for the rankings release at all. It was making him even more abrasive than normal.

If he kept making rude comments to the others, Damien would have to tell him to shut up.

Rhett ignored Alec and found a nearby bench to commandeer with Natalia. The two young women who were sitting at it cooed over Rhett and his young companion, readily giving up their seats.

Ana gave Damien another hard look.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

She had told him about finding the girl crying that morning after one of her uncles called her “breeding stock,” as if she were too young a child to understand the implications. She’d decided to bring Nat with them to get her out of their house and away from the rest of her Family. The whole group of friends had been asked to keep the younger girl’s mind occupied, so she wouldn’t be too depressed about the University taking away her older sister—the major bulwark between Nat and the rest of her Family.

“I just worry. With me gone, she will bear the brunt of it all.”

“You won’t be gone entirely, Ana. Your home is only an hour away. You’ll see her every weekend, and if there’s an emergency, you’ll be able to rush home to deal with it.” Seeing that she was unconsoled, he had an idea. “You’re going into artificery, right? Why not make something that will let the two of you communicate more easily? Like a gold and crystal messenger bird that will take letters back and forth between you. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about what’s happening when you’re not there. Natalia will tell you everything. Knowing that girl, she’ll write till her hand cramps up.”

Anastasia brightened. “That’s a great idea, Damien! Well, not the golden bird, but something to make sure she can always call on me if she needs help. It’ll make it seem like I’m not really gone. I think I saw a pair of notebooks in that fine artificery shop in the Lilies. What you write in one appears in the other. The shop was marketing them to lovers, but they’d work just fine for the two of us, and they were only a few hundred gold, I think. I’ve still got plenty of allowance left over.”

“This is taking forever,” Waverly said, tucking away her book and lifting a hand to ward off the lukewarm sun. “I’m going to go see if the Elemental Conjuration professor is in her office. I have some questions about the Selby-Forman binding variation used in the Northern Islands during the Second Empire.”

“I’ll go with you,” Brinn hurried to say, hunched over a little as if to pretend he was shorter.

“You’ll miss the rankings!” Damien said.

Waverly waved a careless hand at him, her eyes half-lidded as if she might fall asleep where she stood.

“You can tell us where we placed when we get back,” Brinn said with a crooked smile. “I’m sure the rest of our rankings won’t be so spectacular that we need to see the number personally.”

Excited murmurs drew Damien’s attention to the rankings board, which a professor was updating at that very moment. His friends were immediately forgotten.

He hurried to push his way through the crowd, throwing a couple of elbows and receiving a few in return from those who hadn’t turned to see who he was.

Damien was no idiot with an overly inflated sense of his own intelligence, so he didn’t start from the first ranking down, rather from the three-hundredth up. He found his name quickly, only a few spots above the minimum requirement Titus had set in order to teach him that spell. A grin burst across his face.

He took the time to look for his friends’ names, too, and was moving to retreat back through the press of the crowd when he heard a sentence that snapped his head around.

“Professor Lacer took an apprentice?” a student said loudly.

“Thaddeus Lacer? Are you sure? He’s never taken an apprentice before. I heard even the High Crown recommended a relative to him and he refused,” someone else said.

“It says so right here,” the first student said, jabbing a finger toward the much smaller list to the side of the rankings. It was a list of those with special accomplishments, such as being accepted as apprentices to the University’s various faculty. Professors could take one new apprentice per year, and were encouraged to do so at least every few years. The chance to be personally mentored by some of the most prestigious Masters and Grandmasters in their respective fields was just another reason a spot at the Thaumaturgic University of Lenore was so coveted throughout the country, and even by foreigners as well.

Damien shoved through the crowd toward the other list.

“I saw him, in his oral examination,” a girl said loudly, eyes gleaming as those around her turned to listen with interest. “He was performing some sort of spell for the professors. He looked…dreamy.”

Damien almost snorted aloud.

The girl drew out the pause, and those around her filled it with impatient questions.

“What does he look like?”

“What spell was he casting?”

“He must have experience as a sorcerer, then, to be casting before his first class? Maybe he was apprenticed to Lacer already?”

“Sebastien is tall, trim, and with hair like star metal, so fair it looks more silver than yellow. But his eyes are dark, and he doesn’t seem like the type to smile. A little brooding. Very handsome. And rich, too, since I’m pretty sure his suit was bespoke from Fortner’s. Definitely from an aristocratic family. I’ve never seen the spell he was casting before. There was a big ball of darkness and a floating fire, but the flame was blue, and I’m pretty sure it was detached from the Circle because it was moving around over his head. It was ever so impressive.”

Damien’s stomach did a funny flip as he listened to the description. Past all the purple embellishments, this Sebastien sounded awfully familiar.

He, too, had been in the waiting room when the door was opened onto the young man casting a spell during what should have definitely been just an oral examination, not a practical demonstration. He had recognized the platinum hair and the scowl from a few weeks prior, when the sharp-tongued commoner had gotten him chewed out by Professor Lacer. Surely it couldn’t be the same person, though?

“I haven’t heard of the Siverling family before. Are they local?” one of the gossiping girl’s listeners asked.

“Probably not,” she said. “I’m sure we would have heard of him before. He’s the type to stand out.”

Damien scowled, pushing past the gossipers to see the list with his own eyes. True enough, Sebastien Siverling’s name had been posted right there next to Thaddeus Lacer.

“That’s Damien Westbay,” someone whispered, and the group drew back, giving him a couple feet of space, perhaps wary of the stormy glower on his face.

The day he’d returned to Gilbratha to sign up for the exams, Professor Lacer had pulled him away from the other young man, and, away from the ears of the crowd, berated him. “Arguing with a commoner in public? And losing? You may be a member of the Crowns, but that does not afford you the ability to be so idiotically bullish, lacking any machination or cunning. You played into the worst stereotypes about the upper class. Have you never heard of noblesse oblige?”

“I wasn’t the one who started it. It was Alec, but I couldn’t just back down once that fellow started being so rude. Everyone would have seen that part of it, too,” Damien had argued.

“Are those the only two options you can see? Be publicly ill-mannered, or lie down like a meek earthworm and let a commoner walk on you? That was a perfect opportunity to be gracious and gain goodwill. Be glad I stopped you before you could make even more of a spectacle out of yourself. Your mother never would have been so foolish.”

There had been nothing Damien could say to refute that, as he couldn’t even remember his mother’s face, and he knew if Professor Lacer said it, it was surely true. They had been friends when they were younger.

So, shamefaced, he’d apologized.

“Apologies at this juncture are useless,” Lacer had snapped.

Damien glared at the name he could now match with those arrogant, dark eyes and the chin held so condescendingly high. He searched for Siverling among the rankings list, growing increasingly frustrated until he found him near the end.

Siverling had scored poorly on the written exam, a middling green that was barely acceptable. This seemed almost impossible, considering the display he’d seen and the fact that Professor Lacer would deign to take him as an Apprentice.

Damien wanted to scoff, but if he was honest with himself, this revelation made his stomach burn. Suddenly his own accomplishment didn’t seem so amazing.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Remember, you can read a couple chapters ahead on my website (and even further ahead through Patreon)! Once a book has been finished and professionally edited and proofread, the chapters on my website get updated first, so at times there may be differences between the story version there and on other sites.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-16-harmless-blood-magic/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 16 - Harmless Blood Magic

Siobhan

Month 10, Day 29, Thursday 4:00 p.m.

Siobhan hung another banner on a street lamp, which was long parted from its light crystal. After four days of this, she was almost finished. As projects tended to do, this one had stretched, taking almost twice as long as she originally hoped. The area under the Stag’s banner was only a small chunk of the Gilbratha, but a small chunk of the largest city in Lenore actually covered quite a lot of people.

Siobhan had overheard a dozen more conversations from Dryden’s—the Verdant Stag’s—people. She had even participated in a few herself after people had grown used to seeing her with Katerin and the other gang members working on the project.

Her whole body felt slow, her feet hurt, and she was tired of the stench of the Mire’s streets, but she was also buzzing with excitement. She would be moving to the University in a couple days, and she’d improved her dreamless sleep spell.

Artifacts used glyphs to trap a specific cast spell and release it at a later time, according to various rules. She was still far from a proficient artificer, but she’d learned enough from studying to make the banners to cobble something together that seemed to work.

She’d modified the structure and intent of the spell to keep the magic trapped within the spell array, which she drew every night in alcohol and herbal oil extract on the bed underneath her pillow. It heated the bedding as the trapped energy circulated around beneath her head, so she’d had to add in a function to shunt the heat outward. Admittedly, this could have been dangerous, if she was a powerful enough thaumaturge to worry about starting a fire without specifically attempting to set something alight.

The spell was bigger, took more time to cast, and was very inefficient, but it helped to smooth out the release of the magic over a longer time. Which meant that she could sleep for longer.

It wasn’t a long-term solution, but it was something. ‘I’ll find even better options at the University. That library has to hold all the answers anyone could ever need.’

Theo came running up to them with his hands in his pockets and Dryden trailing after him.

“Don’t run with your hands in your pockets, Theo!” Katerin called out in a long-suffering tone.

The boy looked up at his aunt, startled, and tripped on a jagged edge of cobblestone. With his hands stuck in his pockets, he fell forward with no ability to catch himself.

Dryden lunged to catch him, but missed, and the boy’s face smashed into the raised edge of the sidewalk.

Siobhan gasped and ran to Theo without hesitation, only slightly behind Katerin.

Theo managed to get his hands out of his pockets. He climbed to his knees, his hands clamped over his mouth. Blood dribbled between his fingers, his eyes wide and horrified.

Katerin had to force his hands away from his mouth to see the damage.

Two of his top teeth to the right side of his mouth were missing.

“I—I’m sorry. I tried to catch him…” Dryden stammered.

Siobhan looked around on the ground for his teeth. ‘If we can put them back in quickly enough, there may still be a chance for them to heal.’ Though there was already plenty of blood splattering the cobblestones, she found no teeth.

She looked closer at Theo, who started to cry now that the shock had worn off. She placed her hand on his forehead, tilting his head back. “Let me see,” she said.

The nubs of white peeking out of his bleeding gums confirmed her suspicion. “The teeth are still there. They were simply smashed back up into your gums.”

Katerin and Dryden shared an uneasy look. “What does that mean? Will the teeth come out again? Will this damage his adult teeth?” Katerin asked, her voice higher and more frantic than Siobhan had thought the cool, collected woman capable of.

Theo only cried louder, blood and saliva pooling in his mouth and dribbling onto his clothes and the street.

“I can fix it,” Siobhan said. She held Theo’s head and repeated her words as she stared into his eyes, making her voice as soothing as possible. “Don’t worry, child. This will be over soon. Keep your mouth open so I can see what I’m doing, and lean forward so the blood doesn’t keep spilling all over you, alright?”

Dryden was watching intently. “You know healing magic?”

Siobhan found a red oil pastel stick in one of her pockets and unwrapped the wax paper from around the tip carefully. “I’m not a healer. However, I can fix simple things like this, because it doesn’t require any life force or special components to do so, and the other side of his mouth is undamaged. Now, please be quiet. This may not be a serious wound, but anything involving the human body is delicate, and I need my concentration unhindered.”

She reached out to the boy’s face and drew two Circles as evenly as she could, one covering Theo’s cheek and chin on the damaged side, and one on the intact side. The Circles met in the middle over his good teeth. It wasn’t as perfect as she would have liked, but she was trying to draw over and inside a crying child’s mouth while they dribbled blood, snot, and tears. It would have been easier to draw the adjacent Circles on the ground, but perfectly aligning it to his face from there seemed a precarious proposition.

She laid his head down in the puddle of blood on the ground, and then drew a Circle around it all. The glyphs for “blood,” “mirror,” and “tooth” followed, then a pentagram inside of a pentagon, for the combination of transmutation and transmogrification that this spell entailed.

It was simple. Like many of her more useful spells, it relied more on the Will and the Sacrifice than the clarity or complexity of the written Word. She kept the Word in her mind instead, in the form of a detailed, focused image of what she wanted to happen.

When she began to work the magic, Theo’s eyes went wide, and he tried to jerk away.

Dryden’s hands clamped down onto his shoulders from behind and kept him still.

Siobhan combined the sympathetic and natural connection of one half of Theo’s mouth to the other in order to pull his teeth down again, mirroring the damaged side to the healthy side. She tightened the gums as best she could, and then, when her knowledge of anatomy ran out, she simply poured power into the spell, using Theo’s bodily fluids, currently pooled up on the ground beneath him, as the Sacrifice.

The blood of a magical creature was always a good source of power, and humans were, technically, magical creatures, but this was especially efficient, because it was Theo’s own blood.

When it ran out, she let the spell go and leaned back. “Those teeth might be loose and tender for a few days, so be careful with them.”

Theo felt around the spot with his tongue, then spat a few times to get the blood out of his mouth. He rubbed at his tear and pastel-stained cheeks, his sobs calming to shuddering hiccups.

Siobhan stood, only to find both Dryden and Katerin staring between her and the Sacrifice Circle on the ground, white-faced.

Katerin looked around, seeming worried about observers.

“Keep your mouth closed, Theo,” Dryden ordered gravely, looking around as well, though he did so less obviously. He grabbed Siobhan by the arm and dragged her off.

Katerin shoved Theo after them, then worked frantically to scrub out any signs of the spell array from the sidewalk.

“What’s wrong?” Siobhan asked, keeping her voice low.

Dryden pulled her into an alley, looking back out into the street suspiciously. Anger and alarm were obvious in the half-snarl on his face and the way his knees bent and his fingers flexed, his body preparing for violence.

Siobhan’s back straightened and her shoulders pulled back, her grip tightening around her Conduit. She looked out of the alley into the mostly-dark street, but saw no one. ‘No coppers,’ she thought with relief.

When Katerin arrived, she posted herself at the mouth, facing the street like a guard. “Be quiet, Theo,” she ordered, though the boy hadn’t yet said anything.

“Are you trying to get yourself caught and executed!?” Dryden snapped, standing a little too close to Siobhan.

She pulled her arm out of his grip. “I’ve been putting up the banners for days. Surely, if someone were going to turn me in for not having a license, they would have done so already? I understand this was more flashy, and there’s no deniability in my involvement like with the wards, but surely it’s not such a big deal? It’s dark, and even if someone saw, there are no coppers around, anyway.”

“Performing blood magic is very different from placing alarm artifacts on street corners,” he hissed.

She shook her head, frowning at him. “Blood magic? It was just a small movement and mirroring spell.”

He let out a sharp, scoffing laugh. “You used his blood as a component. As a Sacrifice.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She hadn’t purposefully bled Theo to power some great and powerful spell, but Dryden was right. Using a human, or any part of a human, was one of the ways they could define a spell as blood magic.

And blood magic was punishable by death.

Which explained their reaction.

Her face grew pale. “But there was no force involved, no removal of free will, no pain caused by the spell. Surely the Crowns would realize the distinction between healing a boy’s injury and blood magic? It’s no different than using a patient’s reserves to accelerate healing, and that’s common when an appropriate Sacrifice isn’t available. Healers do it all the time. The blood was already out of his body. It’s not like I could put it back!”

Dryden rolled his eyes sharply, his fingers curling like he wanted to reach out and grab her again. “You quite literally used his blood as part of the spell. Just because you didn’t harm anyone won’t make you innocent in the eyes of the Crowns or the citizens who are terrified at the very idea of the Blood Empire.” He snapped his mouth shut, breathing hard. After a few moments to calm himself, he spoke again. “A benevolent purpose won’t save you if you’re caught and arrested. You must be more careful. Where did you even learn such a spell?”

“My grandfather cast it on me when I was a child. I stepped on a nail, and he knitted the flesh of my injured foot back together to match my uninjured foot. Truly, it’s harmless. I’ve used it a handful of times to knit together minor cuts and the like.” His scowl was only growing, so she hurried to say, “However, I’ll be more cautious in the future. It’s easy to forget how different Gilbratha is than what I’m used to.”

Neither Dryden nor Katerin were appeased, but he seemed to accept her words, and after a few minutes of stiffness, Katerin said, “Thank you for saving Theo’s teeth. Next time, though, perhaps we should just bring him to a healer.”

They hurried through the last handful of street corners and returned to the Verdant Stag.

Dryden and Katerin were silent and tense for the rest of the evening, but Theo seemed enthused by the entire ordeal. It was as if the adults’ response to her use of blood magic confirmed all the fantastical stories he had heard of her and how dangerously interesting she was.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

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Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-17-a-toast-to-forceful-personalities/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 17 - A Toast to Forceful Personalities

Oliver

Month 10, Day 31, Saturday 6:00 p.m.

“You should ask me to dance before my card fills up. I still have a blank space for you.” The woman fluttered her fan at him, showing off the wooden handle with names written in most of the spaces. Each name represented a man who had asked her for a specific dance that evening.

Oliver turned to look at her fully, his eyebrows lifting. He was disappointed to see no mocking self-awareness in her eyes, and not even a hint of real audacity. No, she had opened the conversation with a trite one-liner, probably memorized and used on any man she found attractive—whether in appearance, wealth, or social standing.

She pursed glamoured lips at him in a way that was too unsubtle to be appealing.

A puzzle-banded ring glittered on her fourth finger. Married, too.

He reached for her fan without looking away from her eyes, letting his fingers slide across hers as he drew it from her grasp.

Her eyes widened, her lips losing the artificial pout.

He looked down at the fan, his eyes flicking across the names. He handed it back to her. “Perhaps another night, my lady. I dislike sharing.”

Her eyes widened again, her mouth falling open just a little.

He walked past her before she could speak, letting his fingers trail over the back of her hand as he released the fan. It was minor flirting, just enough to throw her off balance and allow him to escape without causing offense, but not so much as to be inappropriate. He had a careful reputation to maintain, after all.

His primary goal tonight was to speak with the host, Lord Gervin, but both he and his wife were still busy mingling and greeting other guests. Instead, Oliver slipped around to the edge of the ballroom, where it was less crowded, and walked up the stairs to look down from the gallery.

He watched the guests, cataloguing who spoke to whom, who smiled to someone else’s face and then sneered as soon as they turned away, and who stood at the edges of the room watching, like him. He would return to mingling soon, but even he sometimes needed a break from interacting with people he found unimpressive—or despicable—without letting on his genuine feelings.

Magic was everywhere.

It glittered from the spelled chandelier and wafted through the air in a subtle, pleasing scent meant to put people at ease. Tiny, butterfly-winged sprites fluttered around the creeping vines crawling up the walls. Magic was even in the carpet beneath his feet, an illusion spell mimicking new grass.

It was hard not to consider his own differences in a place like this.

Soft footsteps came from the carpet behind him, and Oliver turned enough to see Titus Westbay, the second Crown Family’s heir.

The man raised his liquor glass to Oliver, pale grey eyes flicking over the crowd below. “Judging by the extravagance of this party, the restrictions on magical imports haven’t affected the Gervins.”

“Lord Westbay.” Oliver greeted him with a nod of his own, then turned back to the ballroom. “Well, the Gervins would never let it show. But perhaps they will be more amenable to a business opportunity if they are feeling some hint of discomfort with the current situation.”

“Another charitable endeavor, Dryden?” Titus was one of those among the Crown Families who was smart enough to understand Oliver’s appeals to reform, but still he never deigned to support them.

“It’s not charity if you benefit from it as much as those you are helping. Resistance toward innovation and improvement is just a slower way to stagnate and die.” Someday, perhaps when Oliver had more power, he hoped he could sway Titus. He could dearly use the alliance of the Family in charge of domestic law enforcement, and from the hints he’d seen, Titus wasn’t entirely in support of the way the current regime did things.

“Well, a certain type of person will only look to change once the discomfort reaches their own doorway. We may see more of that in times to come,” he said in an ominous tone.

Oliver turned toward the man and raised an eyebrow. “Are the restrictions that bad?”

Titus Westbay grimaced, but turned to look at a group of young people who had just come in from outside.

They were standing below Oliver and Titus, but didn’t seem to have noticed them. “I made the top three hundred of the incoming applicants!” one boy murmured to the oldest Gervin daughter. “I told you what Titus promised, right?” He grinned at her with excitement, and Oliver recognized him as second in line to be the Westbay Family head. They shared the Westbay eyes, though the younger boy’s were less like an incoming stormfront, unburdened by concern.

“He’s off to the University tomorrow. Orientation. I feel myself compelled to say something cliche about how quickly children grow up,” Titus murmured.

Oliver wasn’t sure if Titus had purposefully changed the topic to avoid answering his question. “I’m sure he’ll make your Family proud.” He wondered if Sebastien and the boy would ever interact. It would probably be best if they didn’t.

The Gervin girl gave the younger Westbay a droll smile, seeming to humor his excitement. “Did he teach you the spell already?”

“Well, a variation that I’m able to cast.” He held his hands up to his ears to mimic a dog, grinning at her.

“I hope you’ve considered the danger of casting it in such a loud room?”

“We can go outside and I’ll try it there. You be the lookout, all right?”

“A stakeout mission, then? What is the goal?”

With amused disinterest, the other youths abandoned the duo to their planning, making their way deeper into the ballroom.

“Someone insulting someone else behind their back?” Damien suggested

“That’s entirely too easy.”

“Well, Ana, what do you suggest?”

“Something of actual value. An off-the-record business deal or alliance, perhaps?”

“It needs to be something interesting, Ana.”

“That is interesting!”

He gave her a skeptical look. “What about some information on a crime? Or gossip about one of our professors?”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then nodded. “The latter.”

Titus shot Oliver an amused smile over the rim of his liquor glass. “I hardly remember what it was like to play such games,” he said with a hint of wistfulness.

“We still play games,” Oliver said. “It’s merely that the rewards have little to do with our own simple amusement, and the stakes are much higher.”

“Too true,” Titus muttered, his eyes narrowing.

Oliver followed his gaze to see that the Westbay Family head, second of the Thirteen Crowns, and Titus and Damien’s father, had intercepted the two children before they could leave for the gardens.

Tyron Westbay glowered down at them, and any trace of excitement had left Damien’s face. The boy bowed stiffly. “Good evening, Father.”

“Damien,” the man responded coldly. “Attempting to shirk your social duties?”

The boy seemed to shrink into himself, though his posture was impeccable and his face still expressionless. “No, Father. Ana and I were going to take a stroll through the gardens. Her mother made quite the effort to decorate them.”

Tyron was not appeased by that answer. “Clearly, you think I am a fool. I will not allow you to embarrass our Family, boy.”

The Gervin heiress had her head bowed demurely, and Oliver couldn’t see her face, but the set of her shoulders and the way her fingers twitched as if they wanted to fist in the fabric of her dress showed her feelings.

Beside Oliver, Titus had straightened, his fingers tightening around his glass. He didn’t glare, but the weight of his gaze was such that Oliver almost expected Tyron to stumble back from the children.

Damien’s voice was strained despite his attempt to sound calm. “I will not embarrass the Family, Father.” He hesitated. “I have been accepted to the University. I passed the entrance examinations with distinction.”

Tyron’s expression didn’t change. He looked at his son like one might look at a particularly unpleasant frog. “I am aware of your admission, and the distinction. Are you aware that Titus was the first place examinee in his year, and entered the University a year younger than you are now?”

Damien didn’t respond.

“If I were you, I would rethink any pride you might feel at your conduct. I find myself unsure if you are simply lazy, or if your mother only had enough strength to create one acceptable child in her lifetime.”

Titus sucked in a breath and started moving around to the stairwell to intervene between his father and brother.

A perfectly enunciated, clipped voice responded, bringing Titus to a sudden halt. “I assure you, Tyron, your younger son is quite acceptable.” Thaddeus Lacer stepped in from the garden, dark cloak fluttering behind him. “Perhaps not as much a prodigy as the elder, but three hundred out of the three thousand who made it is by no means mediocre. I expect he will do well in my class. Perhaps, with dedication, he will even become a passable free-caster—which, if I remember, was a feat which your late wife also accomplished.”

“Lacer.” Tyron turned toward the famous University professor with an instinctive movement that spoke to keeping a predator within his field of vision. “That would be…a pleasant surprise.” His tone indicated anything but.

“Indeed. Well, some people have a talent for the discipline, and others do not. Their minds are too rigid. Or too weak. You yourself never managed it, if I remember?”

Damien looked between his father and Lacer, his eyes wide.

Tyron ground his teeth, but bowed his head under the other man’s force of presence. “I have not had the satisfaction,” he admitted.

“Well, fear not,” Lacer said with a cold, humorless smile. “Your sons may yet reach the heights you failed to, and through them you can gain vicarious success.”

Oliver choked on a laugh at the audacity of Lacer’s insult.

Titus approached the group with some caution, though Oliver noted he kept any frustration or amusement from his face. “Good evening, Father, Professor Lacer.” He dipped his head in greeting to the two of them. “I’m pleased to see you could make it. Thoughtful of the Gervins to hold this gathering for the young men and women about to leave for the University, don’t you think?”

Tyron was still bristling from Lacer’s words, but he seemed to decide retaliating wasn’t worth it and turned toward Titus instead. “Very thoughtful,” he agreed, his words clipped.

“I hate to interrupt your conversation, Father, but I crossed paths with Lord Emberlin and thought you might be interested in connecting with him. If you would excuse us, Professor Lacer?”

The man nodded and waved an uncaring hand that made Tyron grit his teeth again. “Feel free. I suspect our conversation was already over.”

Titus pretended not to notice the tension with what Oliver thought was impressive boldness, drawing his father into the crowd. Oliver wondered if Tyron would take out his ire on Titus when they were out of earshot, or if he reserved his venom for his younger son.

The Gervin girl glared at Tyron’s back, any demureness gone from her posture.

Lacer dismissed the awkwardness, turning to Damien. “I will see you in my class on Monday, will I not?”

Looking up, his inner self seeming to unfurl to fill his body again, the boy grinned. “Of course.”

The girl nodded as well. “I look forward to it.”

“Good. Your mother would be proud.” Lacer gave the young man’s shoulder a squeeze, ignoring the glassy eyes and blinking this brought on.

“My father…what you said…you’re not worried about him?” Damien asked.

“On the contrary. I may not be from a Crown Family, but that does not leave me without power or influence of my own. Besides, any inconvenience Tyron can cause me is temporary. Titus would feel no need for vengeance, and he is quickly becoming the true force of your Family. I don’t suppose you will feel the need to revenge yourself on me over this little episode?”

Damien laughed thickly. “I would never be so stupid.”

Lacer smirked. His eyes flicked up to Oliver, who took that as his cue to stop eavesdropping.

On the other side of the ballroom, Oliver fortuitously ran into Margaret Gervin, the wife of the Gervin Family head.

Ever the consummate socialite, she smiled brightly and smoothly tucked her hand into his arm, leading him back toward the trio he was trying to leave behind. “Oh Oliver, have you met my Anastasia? She’s off to the University tomorrow,” she said proudly.

“I have not had the pleasure,” he replied. “Though, to be truthful, I was hoping to speak to you or your husband this evening. I don’t wish to intrude on your last hours with your child, but perhaps we could set up a meeting sometime soon? There is a business opportunity I would like to discuss. I have a new shipment of erythrean horses in, and I know Edward has some interest in riding. Perhaps he could join me for an afternoon and see if any suit his tastes.” He found bribery distasteful, more because it spoke to an inherent failing of the system than because of any moral qualms, but if he could get a sub-contract in the textile industry from the Gervin Family, an exorbitantly expensive erythrean horse would be more than worth it.

“Oh, an erythrean? Edward mentioned you breed those. Yes, I’m sure he’d be interested in meeting, even if only for the chance to ride one. He’s been so jealous of Moncrieffe since last year, you know. It’s too bad Anastasia won’t be available to join you. I have never quite understood it, but that girl does enjoy equestrianism. Refuses to even wear a skirt while riding, though I don’t suppose that would bother you overmuch?” she asked, gazing at him slyly out of the corner of her eye. “You are a man with many avant-garde ideas, I mean.”

“That is true,” he agreed, wondering what she was getting at.

“She has an interest in business as well, though I keep telling her it’s not appropriate for a well-born woman to concern herself with work or money. It’s our fault, I suppose. Edward does love to spoil her, and she is the firstborn, with no boys. I’m of the opinion that, once she’s married, she might settle a bit and see the sense in turning her efforts toward something more appropriate, like a charity foundation. If her husband were agreeable to something like that.”

Oliver cleared his throat to cover his shock at the boldness of the woman’s proposal and give himself time to gather his thoughts. Was Margaret Gervin matchmaking? Between him and her own daughter, no less… “I find it quite natural for some women to be interested in more demanding pursuits. Not all people, man or woman, are suited to domesticity.” It was as neutral an answer as he could give, with no direct indication of interest in her daughter.

He was surprised that they would consider him a viable match for a young girl from such a prestigious background, as a non-Crown Family member, and a foreigner to boot. He was wealthy, true, but marrying into the Gervin Family would be a huge boost to his social standing.

An inappropriately large boost, in the eyes of many.

Margaret was probably only sounding out his feelings on the matter. It seemed ludicrous that the Gervins would consider him a serious candidate.

That thought was reassuring. The other students entering the University were even younger than Siobhan, and no matter how advantageous it might be, the thought of tying himself to someone he didn’t respect, for life, was enough to make his clothes feel too tight and his skin prickle.

“Many would try to crush her spirit,” the woman said, her voice a little softer. A few seconds passed in silence as they arrived at the edge of the ballroom where he’d left Lacer and the two young people. It was empty. “Oh, I thought I saw them here earlier! Wherever have they slipped away to?” she complained.

Oliver caught the edge of a dark cloak fluttering in the dimly lit garden, but said nothing. “Well, I’m sure they’ll turn up later. In the meantime, perhaps I could settle on a meeting time with Edward?”

As they headed back into the crowd, Oliver turned to look for Lacer again in the gardens, but saw no hint of him. He had understood, today, part of why the man was so famous, not just for his grasp on magic, but for the force of his personality. Tyron had been afraid of him.

Oliver wondered how many of the rumors about Thaddeus Lacer were based in truth.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

I'm hinting at more than a couple things in this chapter.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-18-orientation/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 18 - Orientation

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 1, Sunday 2:00 p.m.

Sebastien stood in front of the mirror in Dryden’s foyer, what belongings she owned in the new suitcases behind her, ready to move to the University. Students were required to stay on campus, but Dryden had offered to let her keep any things that might attach her to Siobhan, like her female clothes, in the room she’d been staying in at his house.

She fingered her hair where Katerin had bleached her other body’s hair, inspecting a few blonde strands. It was blonde to the point of being almost grey, but she could detect no change from the rest. ‘So things like bleaching hair in one form don’t transfer to the other. I supposed as much from my prior observations, but still, this artifact casts the most complex spellwork I’ve ever seen.’

Despite her continued interest in the stolen book and the amulet, she’d learned no more about them, only growing her list of things she didn’t understand. The amulet didn’t seem to be continuously active while she kept Sebastien’s form, at least so far as she could deduce. It didn’t seem to be gathering any power from its surroundings, either, which had worrisome implications and sent her imagination running amok.

‘It could be gathering ambient energy constantly, either so slowly I don’t notice it, or in a form I don’t have a way to measure. Perhaps it is somehow linked to a power-gathering Circle back wherever the University explorers discovered it, or a Circle that is hidden away somewhere.’ Those were the good options. The bad options only made her more desperate to decipher the book.

‘The amulet could have a finite amount of power, which it depletes every time I activate the transformation.’ This was how most artifacts worked. If it was the case here, eventually she would run out of transformations, and either be stuck in her true form, a wanted criminal, or wear the form of a stranger forever. But she’d also never heard of an artifact that could be triggered on Will alone, so she was trying to be optimistic.

The last option for its power source was the most chilling.

‘Perhaps the amulet is using me as a Sacrifice, every time it activates. I don’t feel any different, but how would I know for sure?’ She had heard stories of esoteric, ancient magics that used the very life force of a human as Sacrifice, able to power awe-inspiring effects. Being sucked dry like that could bring a young person close to the brink of an early, unnatural death as the thread of their fate was snipped short. ‘I’ll switch forms as little as possible till I figure out how the artifact works. Just in case.’

She would leave the stolen text embedded deeply in the mattress inside the room Dryden had left her. She hadn’t even told him its location. ‘I hope it will be safe there.’ It made her uncomfortable to leave it, but if she took it to the University and someone discovered it, it would be one of the most idiotic ways a criminal had ever been caught.

Dryden walked down one of the twin staircases that led to the second floor, impeccably dressed as always. He smiled at her warmly, and she found her own lips twitching upward in unconscious response. He had that effect on people, drawing them in. “I’ve grown used to your company in the house,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll drop by from time to time? I dislike eating alone, and I hear the University cafeteria meals leave much to be desired.”

Sebastien grimaced, thinking of her now much-depleted chest of gold. She’d given the University three hundred gold for the basic admission fee, and another fifty for each of her six classes. After the money she’d spent hiring Liza for the messenger spell and paying for books, clothing that would let her fit in among her classmates, and various necessary magical components, she had barely a quarter of the original one thousand gold left. When Katerin had insisted on lending her such an enormous amount, she’d assumed it was simply a way to raise the amount of interest she had to pay. Now, it was obvious Sebastien had miscalculated how expensive things would be.

“I probably cannot afford anything better,” she agreed with a nod. “At least I look rich and well-bred.” She tilted her head and body to watch herself at different angles in the mirror. ‘Like this, I make quite the striking sight, if it’s not too bold to say so about myself,’ she thought, smirking slightly. On Sebastien’s face, with a nose that was too long and angular and lips that curled up naturally at the edges, the expression looked natural, arrogant in a less aggressive way than it would have on her face as Siobhan. The flip-flopping of identities was still strange, and yet, somehow she had grown accustomed to it.

Dryden chuckled, leaning on the banister to watch her.

She ignored him, inspecting herself critically. The gold coins she’d sewn into the lining of her suit jacket, inserted in new hidden pockets in her vest, and jammed into the double-layered collar of her boots weren’t noticeable. She’d done the same to all her sturdier clothes. She was trying to be more prepared for the unexpected, but she’d also always thought secret pockets, compartments, and the like were fascinating. As always, her numerous other pockets were filled with a carefully organized set of spell components and her Conduit. ‘Even if I have to escape Gilbratha suddenly, with only the clothes on my back, I won’t be totally helpless.’

She didn’t require any help with her luggage, but Dryden sent his male servant to carry it for her anyway. “For appearance’s sake. Second first impressions, and all that. You have the ward bracelets?”

Sebastien showed him the two thin wooden bands on her wrist, bound together by a small bead of pewter. In an attempt to be more pessimistic and thus more prepared for things that might otherwise make her think back and say, “if only,” she had created a few more warded objects—very simple artifacts—based on what she had learned from the larger project. Now she, Dryden, and Katerin could warn each other of danger. To trigger the alarm, they would simply need to break their own bracelet by pulling it apart at the weak pewter bead, which would make the one it was linked to grow startlingly and uncomfortably cold.

Katerin and Oliver shared a more powerful linked artifact that allowed them to send actual messages as long as they didn’t travel too far from each other. Items like that were not uncommon, but their expense was prohibitive, and they carried a greater danger of being used against you. They could be used to track the object that they were linked to, and weren’t as easy to destroy as the disposable bracelets, which were no longer linked as soon as their magic was triggered.

If Oliver or Katerin triggered Sebastien’s bracelet, she would immediately escape the University, and hopefully avoid capture. “I’ll drop by next weekend, if I have time. I promised Katerin I would do some alchemy for the Stag, and I don’t know if it���ll be safe to do so at the University.”

“I look forward to it.” He smiled as he watched her go. “Good luck. I know you’ll do wonderfully!” he called after her.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him as his loud shout drew attention from passersby, but couldn’t help the smile of excitement on her face. She lifted her hand above her head and waved at him without looking back.

The bridge over the river closest to the University was packed with traffic. By the time she and the servant made the long winding walk up the white cliffs and stood before the gates at the top, it was late afternoon. She’d arrived early to avoid the anxiety she had felt that day standing in the application line, but still felt overwhelmed by the crowd.

There were thousands of people milling around. Most were a few years on either side of twenty, close to her own age, and human. But not all.

Some of the new students—recognizable from their wooden tokens—were older, one even an old, stooped man. Many of the students had foreign features—evidence that the Thaumaturgic University of Lenore was indeed the best arcanum in the world. People traveled from far and wide to study there.

There were non-humans, too, some more obvious than others, and some that might have been mixed-species. Scales melting into skin, strangely colored or shaped eyes, extra or inhuman appendages. Witches were accompanied by their familiars, and there were a couple vague-eyed people who might have been shamans or animists.

The occasional paper bird gliding through the air above the crowd caught her attention—enchanted messages, spelled to take flight and deliver themselves to set destinations or recipients.

She grinned. ‘With some time to prepare, you could bombard an enemy with a flock of paper birds spelled to deliver themselves to them. If their flight is strong enough to carry even a few grams, they could be quite dangerous.’

She found her name on the very, very long list of new students, a few thousand names from the top, because it was organized by placement on the entrance exam rather than alphabetically. It told her the name of the student liaisons in charge of her group’s orientation and where to gather. She walked to the indicated spot.

A blonde young woman with short hair and a broad face, her features somewhat unfeminine but still striking, waited in the middle of a group of Sebastien’s fellow new students. At first, it seemed she was taller than the rest of the crowd by a good two feet, and Sebastian wondered if she might actually be half jentil, or some other giant variant, but a few bodies shifted to reveal the woman was standing atop some kind of barrier spell, which shimmered a dull yellow in pulses like a heartbeat. She had an air of easy confidence that, together with her looks, made her seem approachable.

As soon as the bell finished ringing to mark four o’clock, the student liaison called out, “New students! Please listen for your name to be called! If your name is confirmed on my list, I am your orientation guide and your student liaison. If not, please check the rankings list again or talk to one of the administrators.”

When she had finished the roll-call, she said, “My name is Tanya Canelo. If you do not make my life difficult, you can call me Tanya. This,” she gestured to a young man who Sebastien couldn’t quite see past the crowd, “is my counterpart, Newton Moore.”

He waved. “Hello, everyone! You can call me Newt!”

Tanya continued. “We are both University aids in our fourth term. That is the latter half of our second year, for those of you unfamiliar with University workings. As your student liaisons, you can come to us with problems, questions, or to ask for help. I don’t tutor people personally, but I can help you request study aids and can interact more directly with the faculty. We also have the power to assign certain punishments.” She met their gazes with one eyebrow raised threateningly.

“I do offer tutoring,” Newton called, a little awkwardly. “Though my time is limited. I’ve a sign-up sheet that will be posted in your dorm.”

Tanya nodded. “When you are in your fourth term—if you make it that far—you’ll have the chance to apply for various University aid positions. They pay, both in gold and in University contribution points. Follow me.” She hopped down from her barrier, the spell dissolving as soon as she did.

Sebastien pushed through the crowd to get a look at the spell array scratched into the dirt, but other people’s feet scuffed it out before she could.

Tanya and Newton led their group east, past the looming, predominant building of the University, the Citadel, to a large rectangular building with four different sets of double doors set at intervals along its side, rising multiple stories high. “This is the student housing building. For you, the dorms.” She intoned the last word ominously, which stoked some muttering from the other students.

Halfway down the ground floor hallway, Tanya opened another set of double doors onto a long, proportionately narrow room. A row of small beds was settled against either wall. Brick walls that only came to about five feet high divided the beds from each other, and the room into cubicles, with curtains around the inside of each. Two windows on the far side let in the only natural light, but there were light crystal fixtures hanging from the ceiling.

‘No privacy, no sound or light-proofing, and no door. At least it’s not bunk-beds.’

Tanya stepped aside and waved her arm grandly. “You will all share this dorm room. Beds are first-come, first-served. Girls on the left, boys on the right.”

There was a brief pause as they all digested what she meant, and then they rushed into the room.

Sebastien led the pack. She didn’t hesitate, moving directly for the last bed in the row, next to the two windows. ‘The boys’ side. I’m not a woman, here,’ she reminded herself. It grew noticeably chillier the farther from the door she went, but that didn’t bother her. She knew how to store warmth in a fire-heated rock, and more than anything, she preferred not to be sandwiched between two other beds. The spots nearest the door seemed highly coveted, judging by the scuffle that had immediately broken out between a handful of boys, so the far side was the only other option.

Unconcerned, Tanya strolled along the aisle between the two rows of beds, watching the hierarchic struggle play out between both groups of students. “Curfew is at midnight. While you’re not required to sleep at that point, you cannot disturb the rest of your dorm-mates. I would suggest learning some sound-muffling spells, for your own sake as well as others’. If you’re found out after curfew, you’ll be punished. As student liaisons, we can assign punishments such as demerits and detentions, and act as witnesses for more severe rule breaking. Troublemakers can and will be expelled.”

Newton, Sebastien saw now that the crowd had spread out, seemed to have grown upward before the rest of his body could catch up. He had the awareness of his gangly elbows and knees that spoke to a bit of clumsiness, and his clothes, though nice, were faded or worn in spots. In contrast to Tanya, he smiled encouragingly at the students rapidly filling up the dormitory.

To Sebastien’s surprise, the boy she had argued with at the admissions queue, the one with the tired bags under striking grey eyes, took a spot just two beds away from her. He was followed by most of his rich cronies.

His pretty female friend, again wearing a suit with trousers instead of a skirt or dress, took the bed directly across the aisle from Sebastien.

As Siobhan, Sebastien had worn a man’s suit more often than not, because it was convenient and comfortable. But among the University students and their wealth, such clothing on a woman was rare enough to stand out.

The other girl moved with instinctive grace, from the movement of her limbs to the tilt of her head to the placement of her fingers.

Sebastien had never been one of those girls who focused on beauty. Magic was both more interesting and more useful. She had to admit, though, that the girl’s ridiculously smooth skin, big limpid eyes, and shining honey-colored hair drew the eye. She wasn’t the only one who found herself staring a little longer than she meant to, but she was the first to realize what she was doing and mind her own business.

The spoiled rich boy met her gaze and gave her a long look, his expression inscrutable.

Conscious of the need to keep a low profile, she didn’t stare him down in return, instead turning to make sure all her things fit within the chest at the foot of her bed. It wasn’t that hard. She only had a few sets of clothes for Sebastien, and the rest was just various magical components, books, and her grimoire. She would have to ward it against intrusion and tampering later.

When they had finally settled, some looking more dissatisfied than others, Tanya spoke again. “Before any of you think to complain to us about your living situation, let me explain how this works. No amount of money or favors done outside the University itself will get you out of these beds. Only contribution points are worth anything here. As you are below fourth term, your options for earning said points are limited. You might get a handful from your professors, but unless you’re an ass-nuzzling genius, that won’t be much. If you decide you’re competent enough, you can compete in the end of term exhibitions. These take place in front of the whole University, and people from all over Gilbratha and beyond come to watch.”

“Sometimes even the High Crown comes to watch the upper-term students,” Newton interjected.

“If you manage to perform impressively, you’ll gain contribution points, and next term, you and three others who performed similarly might be able to purchase a smaller dorm room. One with just four beds and an attached bathroom.” Tanya looked at the girls’ side of the room as she said this.

“Perform exceptionally well, and you could find yourself with just one roommate, or even a room all to yourself on one of the upper floors. Alternatively, you can use contribution points for other things, like one of the improved meal plans, or any of the prizes on display in the Great Hall, which I encourage you to peruse when you have time. When you’ve completed three terms of study and gained your Apprentice certification, they consider you competent enough to benefit the University in other ways. These options expand as your level of training increases, and the compensation increases accordingly. Work hard enough, and you might even walk away from the Great Hall with a wand created and charged with spells by Archmage Zard himself. He donates one or two prizes every semester.”

At that, the dissatisfaction on most faces melted away, taken over by excitement and avarice.

Tanya stopped at the end of the aisle and looked out one of the windows for a moment. Then she turned to Sebastien. “Siverling, was it?” Her voice had lowered from its “announcement” volume, but not nearly enough for a one-on-one conversation.

Sebastien straightened, her heart pounding as she attempted to show no more than mild surprise. “Yes, Apprentice Canelo,” she said, wondering why the woman was singling her out.

“I haven’t heard of your family before,” she said, watching Sebastien with her arms crossed. She didn’t seem exactly hostile, but something about her gaze made Sebastien wary.

“The Siverlings were based in Vale prior to my move to Gilbratha,” Sebastien said. She’d visited that city when traveling with Ennis. It was far enough away that most people who lived in Gilbratha would have never been there, and large enough that no one from Vale would be surprised not to recognize her if they met.

“Hmm. I heard a little of what happened during the examination.”

Sebastien’s heart sank. “That was my own foolishness,” she said, her voice low.

“Really?” Tanya raised her eyebrows. “Does your family have a connection to Professor Lacer? Perhaps from the border skirmishes? I heard he made an exception for you, and that’s unheard of.”

Sebastien shook her head. Her neck and cheeks felt hot, and she wondered if she was blushing noticeably. “The Siverlings have no connection to Professor Lacer,” she said, trying to keep from going into any details that could later be used against her. She had already known she behaved stupidly, but she clearly hadn’t considered all the ramifications.‘Gossip travels quickly.’ She tried to keep her expression calm. “I can’t speak for him. Perhaps he saw what the other professors didn’t, or perhaps he acted merely out of the kindness of his heart,” she said, adding silently, ‘Because he saw I was going to be banned forever.’

A couple meters away, the grey-eyed boy snorted incredulously. “I don’t believe that’s the case.” He tilted his head in challenge.

Sebastien blinked at him a couple times. ‘This boy is being antagonistic for no reason now.’ Half the room was eavesdropping unabashedly, and curious whispers had started up between some students. She resisted the urge to glare at him and tell him to mind his own business, as she doubted that would help her avoid more attention.

Tanya clasped her hands behind her back and leaned in closer, a small, conspiratorial smile on her face. “Hmm. Are you just that good, then? I’ll have to find out your secret, Mr. Siverling.”

Internally, Sebastien groaned aloud and dropped her head into her hands. ‘I need to redirect this conversation somehow.’ Outwardly, she shrugged. “I really have no secrets to tell. I’m more interested in learning the secret of that spell you used to raise yourself above the crowd earlier,” she said.

Tanya waved her hand dismissively, but the small smile remained on her face, maybe even growing a little. “You’ll learn a variation in your second term.” She turned back to the rest of the dorm, raising her voice fully again. “That is, if you manage to last that long. The University is competitive, you know that. Some of you may not be aware that, for every term before your Apprentice certification—in addition to those of you who fail naturally—the lowest one out of every ten people will not continue on to the next term, regardless of passing grades or test scores.”

There were some murmurs of uncertainty. “In addition to those who fail?” someone echoed.

“If you were admitted, you were judged adequate. You beat out approximately seventy percent of this year’s applicants. To continue, you must not be merely adequate, you must be better than your fellow sorcerers. If you fall into this sub-par category, but have not failed your classes, you must either leave the University or re-take that term’s core classes. Due to the competitive nature of your fellow students, you may find people wish to push you down in order to climb higher by walking on your back. Pranks and petty theft are common. However, any truly harmful pranks or attacks on your person will be met with punishment. The University supports adversity. It does not allow damage to the future generations of leaders who are trained here.”

Tanya’s words made Sebastien’s stomach clench. She had continued to study after the examination, but with the alarm ward project for Dryden, she hadn’t even had the time to get completely through her reference texts a second time. ‘It shouldn’t be so dismaying. Just as I couldn’t learn enough in the initial two weeks, two more weeks isn’t enough to fix that deficiency. It’ll likely take me all term to reach an acceptable standard, and perhaps even longer than that. I hope it’s enough.’ She’d noticed that Tanya said the University would not allow harm to the future leaders. Perhaps the wording wasn’t meant to insinuate anything, but she wondered if it would cause as much backlash if the person who came to harm was a poor, unconnected civilian who just happened to score higher than the Crown Family children.

“After the first three terms, there’s no limit on who can pass, but the classes will get harder, and the spells more demanding. Not everyone can keep up with the necessary growth of their Will. Don’t expect to graduate without reaching at least two hundred fifty thaums instant capacity.”

“If you have doubts,” Newton said, “I encourage you to take one of the remedial classes in the evening. They’re free.”

Tanya nodded. “Remedial classes have someone available to supervise your casting and handle emergencies, just like the practice rooms. It’s safer than practicing on your own and risking Will-strain or death.” The room grew very silent. Tanya cast her gaze over the first-term students. “To be clear, some of you are going to die. Statistically, one in fifteen will misstep or catastrophically lose control before reaching Master level.” She let the silence hang for a moment after those ominous words.

“We’re here to help. Maybe for some of you, we can change those numbers,” Newton said. “If you’re feeling stressed or worn-down, there are resources available to all students. Please don’t take chances with your life or sanity.”

“Yes. The University has a lot of protections in place and resources for those who feel they or those around them might be in danger. All the structures are spelled to withstand damage. There are wards drawn into the floor around every desk in the classrooms to contain misfires. There are dozens of practice classrooms where you can do your practical work under supervision of an upper-term student. The professors are trained in crisis management. The University has some of the best healers in the world, as well as a wing in the infirmary dedicated to spell damage. There is a section of every building reinforced and set aside to use as an emergency shelter in case of dangerous rogue magical beings or effects. Those locations are in your on-boarding materials. Make sure you have them memorized.”

Tanya sighed, looking suddenly tired. “The mortality rate is this high despite these efforts. If you are found to be endangering the life of another student through reckless use of magic, get ready to be expelled.” She glared around at them, letting the threat hang in the air.

Tanya turned back to the double doors, motioning for the group to follow her. “Ward your area and belongings, if you know how. Nothing permanent, however. You’ll likely be moving dorms by next year, even if you’re not one of those who manages to earn the points for a better boarding arrangement.”

They exited the north doors of the student housing building, and Tanya pointed out the High Tower to the east, which sat at the edge of the cliffs, looking over the sea. The whole thing belonged to the Archmage, and according to Tanya, held both his living area and heavily warded rooms where he practiced the most powerful magic in the country. “See those chunks cut out of the top level? Those aren’t just windows. Someone tries to attack by sea, and Archmage Zard uses the heavy artillery to turn them into kraken food,” she said. “The smaller buildings next to it are mostly professors’ homes.”

They went west from there, passing the servants’ quarters, which were in a rectangular building much like their own dorm, and arrived at the cafeteria. “Your schedules should have a free period in the middle of the day to allow you to take meals, but it’s not required you do so at those times,” Tanya said before leading them through the process of ordering food with their student tokens.

Sebastien was pleasantly surprised by the quality, until Newton explained that normally, any luxurious or expensive foods could only be purchased with contribution points, and this meal was merely a one-time bonus. Their tokens got them into the cafeteria, but students without points could only order more basic items, and had a limit on how many dishes they could add to their plate each meal.

After they finished eating, the student liaisons led them outside again. They pointed out the Flats to the north, where the white cliffs rose higher and lost their covering of dirt, creating a few flat buttes and many wide open spaces.

Another tower rose out of the midst of the trees as they moved further west. This was Eagle Tower, and restricted to professors and high-level student aids, who used it for research and experimentation.

Beyond that was what Tanya ominously called “the Menagerie,” warning them not to act like idiots with plants and animals they didn’t understand. “Every term, at least one person is sent to the medical wing because they were too stupid to realize you don’t touch possibly dangerous things you don’t understand. You do not sniff them. You do not taste them. And you definitely do not decide to be friends with them because they’re just so darn cute.”

Finally, they swung around to the library, where Newton explained how to navigate the building, reserve private study rooms, and more or less find books on specific topics. There were crystal balls set on podiums around the central atrium, and these operated as index and search artifacts. They were engraved with a sophisticated silver spell array that could retrieve information from a complicated organizational catalogue. Newton demonstrated their use by writing some keywords on a small card of paper and feeding it into the brazier attached to one. He stared into the crystal, then led them to a far corner of the library and pulled out an old book on the care and feeding of under-bed dust bunnies.

Sebastien couldn’t wait to try it for herself.

The large majority of the library was off-limits to students under Apprentice level—those who’d completed at least three terms. Restricted books were held in archives below ground level, along with a huge emergency shelter that Newton was quick to remind them of. Books that were deemed possibly dangerous to inexperienced casters, but not illegal, resided on the higher floors. After three terms and an Apprentice certification, you could access the second floor as well as the ground floor. A Journeyman, at five terms, could access all the above-ground levels. Getting access to the archives in the basement required Master certification or special dispensation, and sometimes both. They could also use contribution points to access certain restricted areas early.

The ground floor of the library held enough books that Sebastien could have spent years among their pages. Still, she couldn’t help but look up through the atrium with envy, chafing at the thought that all that knowledge would be out of her reach for at least three terms.

Finally, Tanya and Newton returned them to their dorms, did another head count to make sure they had lost no students along the way, and left for their own, much more private rooms.

Sebastien placed a basic perimeter alarm ward around her bed with a hard wax crayon. She didn’t want anyone sneaking up on her in her sleep. A simple spell she’d learned from one of the books Katerin bought her locked the trunk at the base of her bed.

Some of the other students prepared similarly, while others either watched apprehensively or shrugged off the danger as exaggerated.

‘It’ll have to do for now, until I can learn stronger protections.’

Finally, she cast the dreamless sleep spell on her pillow, set another newly learned alarm spell on her pocket watch to wake her in the morning, and shoved some wax in her ears to drown out the sounds of the other students. ‘It’s too bad I cannot draw attention to myself in these exhibitions. I would really like to buy my way into a more private room.’ She struggled to fall asleep, the drawn curtains not enough to make her feel safe in a room with a hundred and fifty strangers.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note: Hey guys! I've had some questions about the release schedule. This story updates every Thursday, from usually early evening, Mountain Time.

I will occasionally post bonus chapters, either to celebrate something or as a reward for hitting the next Patreon membership goal.

Hope you enjoy this week's chapter!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-19-introduction-to-modern-magics/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 19 - Introduction to Modern Magics

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 2, Monday 4:00 a.m.

When Sebastien woke on Monday morning, with only the light of the stars filtering in through the window to see by, she didn’t know where she was for a moment. She lay still, her Conduit in her hand without having knowingly grabbed it, and waited for the danger to reveal itself. As her brain cleared of dream residue, it caught up with recent events, and she realized she was in a dorm room with over one hundred other students. If something external had woken her, it was likely just a snore.

She grabbed the pocket watch sitting on her bedside table and held it up to the window to read the time in the faint light. Setting the watch back down with a sigh, she got up. With a fresh set of clothes, one of the luxurious towels she had brought from Dryden Manor, and the pouch that held her hygiene materials, she tiptoed off to the bathrooms assigned to their dorm. The bathroom, like the dorm, was all one big room, but at least the thin walls enclosing the showers and self-cleaning chamber pots provided some privacy.

The water was hot, and the feel of it beating down on her shoulders as she washed helped to put her at ease. When she returned to her bed, she felt calm enough to secure at least a few more hours of rest. She knew that she would need it.

When she woke again to the vibration of her spelled pocket watch, she felt ridiculously refreshed. ‘Well, that is almost twice as much sleep as I normally get. I suppose I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be rested. Perhaps the library will contain a stronger version of the dreamless sleep spell. It would be wonderful to feel like this every day.’ She dressed in one of her much-too-expensive suits and carefully filled its pockets with her standard gear, then recast the locking spell on her trunk before leaving for the cafeteria.

The comments about the University food had not been in jest. It was…lacking, both in taste and in volume. ‘It’s funny how quickly you can adapt to hedonism,’ she thought, spooning tasteless oat slop into her mouth. A mouth-watering omelet with cheese and fresh vegetables and a stack of waffles with nuts and drizzled syrup had called tantalizingly to her stomach…but they were only for students with contribution points. The worst thing, though, was that coffee required points, which shouldn’t have been a surprise, considering its cost. ‘Just a couple months ago, on the road, I was conditioned to campfire food with only the occasional seasoning, and wouldn’t have found this meal lacking. Staying at Dryden Manor has spoiled me. Perhaps I can buy some spices in the city and add them to the meals myself.’

Her first class was Introduction to Modern Magic, in one of the slightly wedge-shaped classrooms on the ground floor of the Citadel. The surface of the students’ desks were made of dark slate, like the blackboard at the front of the room, and had a main Circle and a few attached component Circles carved into the surface already, ready to be filled with a written Word array. Sebastien assumed this was for both safety and convenience. ‘It’s impossible to carelessly smudge a carved line.’

The teacher was an older woman, but despite her grey hair, her cheeks were rosy, her lips plump, and her eyes bright. All signs of rejuvenating cosmetic magics, or perhaps glamours. “Welcome, students!” she said, her tone both kind and enthusiastic, like some perfect mother from a child’s tale. “I am Jan Burberry, Professor of Modern Magics and Master Sorcerer. You can call me Professor Burberry.”

“This is Introduction to Modern Magics. The class is an amalgam of many of your other classes, taking bits from all of them, and encouraging you to put those pieces together as we learn to both understand and cast spells. It is not called simply ‘Introduction to Magic’ because we will be focusing on the contemporary understanding and innovations to our process that have allowed us to make such great strides as a nation. I am talking about sorcery.” She looked around at all the students, who were listening raptly with an energy that would no doubt wane later in the term as the novelty wore off and fatigue set in.

“Sorcery is, in fact, inherently no different from other forms of magic. We have simply given a new name to a new, more ordered method of thinking about magic, and about the world. Modern magic is quantified and defined—as best we can, anyway. We understand the purpose of the Word, and with transparent methods of notation, a spell can be learned by someone halfway across the country, with no need for a teacher to walk the neophyte through each step. Natural science allows us to understand the world and use its established rules to affect change. A broader comprehension of sympathetic science allows us to devise a way to attain almost any imaginable spell output.” She said the words with the gravitas they deserved, a kind of gleeful avarice in her eyes, and suddenly Sebastien saw how a woman such as Professor Burberry had become a Master of sorcery, a shiver of excitement aroused in her own chest.

The professor stopped and looked at a young man in the middle of the classroom. “Do you know the commonly used analogous terms for the effects of natural science and sympathetic science?”

The young man stiffened in surprise and swallowed heavily. “Err, transmutation and transmogrification?”

Professor Burberry nodded. “Correct. As you should know, transmutation is the magical art of transforming something from one form into another, natural form, configuration, or element of itself. A common example is transforming water into ice, or mud into stone. Transmutation takes one thing and turns it into another directly. Transmogrification takes the intangible qualities of something and uses them to transform something else or cause some effect. A common example of this is using a feather, preferably a white feather, in a spell to reduce weight. Even if you see the connection between a feather, flight, and the idea of weightlessness, why does the color of the feather matter? You will dig deeper into this in your class on sympathetic science.

“All magic consists of the same basic elements. Components, if you will.” She paused, and scattered members of the class tittered at the little joke. “It is often said that magic has three necessary elements. This is wrong. It is similar to the misconception that we live in three dimensions. Can anyone explain what I mean by this?”

The classroom was silent. Sebastien frowned, trying to figure out what the woman was getting at. ‘Will, Word, and Sacrifice are the elements of magic. What three dimensions do we supposedly live in? Does she mean length, width, and height, like a three-dimensional box?’

The woman’s next words confirmed this suspicion. “There are three spatial dimensions, but the fourth dimension is time, which allows us to experience the other three. Time is not different from space, it is simply that we live inside it, and so we cannot see it. Or at least, that is the latest theory of Archmage Bolton from Silva Erde.” She drew some depictions on the board of how the world would be perceived in one, two, three, and four dimensions.

Sebastien drank in the explanation with excitement, her mind swirling as her paradigm of the world shifted. She had never thought of time in that manner before. ‘If that’s true, then doesn’t it mean time can be bent or changed, like the other three?’ She imagined a pocket of invisible time tucked away from the rest of the world, like the amulet she wore under her shirt had been tucked away inside a space-bending spell in the leather of the stolen book. Perhaps one day, she could create such a thing.

Professor Burberry turned from the drawing on the blackboard. “Does anyone know the fourth dimension of magic, now?”

Slightly behind Sebastien and to her right, a familiar voice called out, “You are speaking of the Conduit, Professor.”

She turned to see the rude, grey-eyed boy, a small smirk playing about his mouth.

The professor tipped her head to him in acknowledgment. “That is correct, Mr. Westbay. The Conduit is the fourth element, which allows the expression of the initial three. All students should have one, and you will need one for this class. Conduits for sorcerers are a mineral called celerium. Celerium, in its purest and most conductive form, is a clear crystal. In addition to being the only suitable Conduit for a sorcerer, it is useful in a number of artifacts and other delicate and powerful spells, and with the limited amount that can be mined each year, it is understandably a valuable resource.” She stopped, her eyes on Sebastien. “Do you disagree, young man?”

Sebastien belatedly realized that she had been frowning, her head tilted to the side quizzically. She may have even given a small shake of her head, before Professor Burberry reminded her that she was visible to the other people in the classroom, and, beyond that, that the person teaching her was not her grandfather, the man that relished dissension as a sign of actual thought from his pupil. ‘I must stop forgetting that.’ Aloud, she said, “Oh, no, Professor. I apologize.”

Burberry gave her a raised eyebrow and a challenging quirk of her plump lips. “No need to back down now, young man. Are you a witch, perhaps? You have your own familiar and feel it is just as good as a celerium Conduit?” Her words were—ever so slightly—mocking. “Tell us what is on your mind. Do not be shy.”

Sebastien could feel herself straightening in response, but resisted the urge to stand. “I just thought that it seemed you were leaving out other possible Conduits besides celerium. I have a celerium Conduit myself, and I agree that they are superior for sorcerers, but as I understand it, one can use anything at all as a Conduit. It’s just that most things don’t work very well for the purpose, or have other downsides or requirements, like using your own body as a Conduit, or needing to make a contract with a being from another plane.”

Burberry had lost her faint smile and was now staring at Sebastien grimly. She let the silence drag on for too long, until it became uncomfortable. “I see I should have allowed you to remain silent.” Finally, she turned to the rest of the class. “Using your own body as a Conduit is not just ‘bad.’ I do not consider it a viable option at all. I would sooner try to use the very air within my lungs to channel magic than such a ridiculously dangerous and suicidal method. Strike the possibility, the very idea, from your minds. Never consider it, even in the direst of circumstances. If you have no Conduit available to you, it would be better to die than to cast with your own flesh and blood.” Again, she let the silence drag on, meeting their eyes with a hard gaze.

‘Knowledge is always better than ignorance. How could it be better to have no idea about the possibility than to understand and be wary of the dangers? Burberry doesn’t believe this, it seems. If today is any indication, she will teach us what she thinks is good for us to know, not everything there is. But who is she to decide what we should know? Who is she to limit me at all?’ Sebastien found her heart pumping faster with indignation and tried to relax. ‘She and I are philosophically incompatible. Still,’ she consoled herself, ‘she is a Master of sorcery. There is much for me to learn from her.’ Sebastien had lost some of her enjoyment in Burberry’s lecture, but she continued to pay attention.

“It is my duty to impress upon you, as I attempt with all my students, the danger of this path you have chosen to walk. Perhaps you have heard the statistics.” Her voice was strained as she continued. “I have seen too many young lives snuffed out in the most gruesome of manners. Let us talk about the main ways we, as thaumaturges, put ourselves in danger. We will have this discussion once. If I see anyone carelessly putting themselves or others at risk, be assured I will punish you to the fullest extent of my authority.”

She glared out at them until she was sure everyone was paying complete attention, then moved to write on the chalkboard. “Energy imbalance. Circle placement and disturbance. Will-strain. Conduit failure. Blood magic and corrupted Will.”

She tapped her chalk on the first item on the list. “Objects have an energy coefficient that is based partially, but not completely, on their density. This affects both necessary input and output of a spell, as well as the strength of Will required to cast it. Let me give you some examples. If you are attempting a simple shape-change transmutation, say molding a twig into the shape of a block, with a one-gram twig and an output of a two-gram block, the extra mass has to come from somewhere. Somewhere you didn’t plan on, which means you don’t have the proper Word setup for it. The magic will become unstable, and if your Will is strong enough, the remaining wood might be carved out of somewhere else within the bounds of the Circle, and avoid the whole spell failing outright. What if your input and output volumes match, but you are molding a metal rod instead of a twig?” She turned expectantly toward her students.

“It takes more energy,” someone supplied.

“Exactly. You will require a sufficient energy source to mold a material with a higher energy coefficient, as well as a stronger Will. What if you have not supplied enough energy?”

“It must come from somewhere,” Sebastien muttered.

Burberry pointed at her. “Yes. But where?”

“From somewhere inside your Circle, hopefully. If your Will is strong enough, as you mentioned, you might be able to turn the spell to eating at the warmth of whatever matter lies within the spherical boundaries. Then, at the matter itself. Dirt, air, whatever there is. Will is a glue that can fill in the gaps, but there has to be something there to work with. You’d be risking the magic escaping your control and causing either physical or mental backlash.”


“Let us ponder the situation in the other direction. You have a small flask of water. You attempt to put all the energy from a bonfire into it. What happens?” she asked, still staring at Sebastien.

“If the flask is sealed, it explodes. I suppose the nature of the damage would depend on how quickly you were transferring the energy. If your Will has a high enough capacity to push the contents of the flask from water to gas instantly, it could be very dangerous.”

The woman nodded, humming thoughtfully. “Alright. Let’s talk about the Circle itself, then. Let us say you are casting a spell on a piece of leather. Creating a purse that wards against thieves, perhaps. You stick your hand into the Circle. What happens?”

Sebastien’s stomach twisted. That was not a random question. ‘Professor Burberry must have heard about my idiocy during the verbal entrance exam.’ She hesitated before answering. “Any number of things could go wrong. Perhaps the spell doesn’t distinguish between leather and living skin, and your hand is flayed and made into a purse.”

Burberry’s tone was cold. “And perhaps you lose control of the spell when that happens. Perhaps everything within the Circle explodes, and you die. Perhaps the loose magic rips your mind apart and you are left a mumbling idiot screaming at invisible terrors and wetting the bed for the rest of your life.”

Sebastien swallowed. “Yes,” she said, her voice little more than a shamed whisper, though her chin did not bow and her shoulders did not hunch.

Burberry turned to face the rest of the class again. “You can also cause damage by disturbing the boundary of the Circle. If it is drawn in chalk or scratched in the dirt, and something breaks the enclosure of the Circle, your control over the Sacrifice and the magic moving through the spell will be severely compromised. You will be lucky to escape with just Will-strain, if you are able to release the magic ‘safely’ and end the spell-casting prematurely. I recommend only casting spells with fully carved or engraved Circles, such as the ones the University provides.” She motioned to their slate desks.

“Who can tell me the causes, signs, and side-effects of Will-strain?”

The grey-eyed boy to Sebastien’s right raised his hand immediately, and the professor nodded to him. “Your Will can be strained from losing control of a spell’s magic, or simply from channeling too much at once, or for too long,” he said, reciting the answer with the cadence of something memorized. “It starts with headaches, dizziness, and inability to concentrate. At this point, a few days of rest from spellcasting or mental strain will heal you. With more moderate strain, judgment is impaired. Sometimes thaumaturges display difficulty modulating emotions, with rapid swings from one to the other. At this point, one to two weeks of rest is recommended, along with a visit to a healer to ensure there is no lasting damage. Then hallucinations, with the more severe ones resulting in paranoia and even accidental harm to oneself or others. The strain is very serious at this point. You should ignore the hallucinations. Avoid focusing on them and forcefully relax yourself, even if that requires sedatives. There is still a possibility of recovery at this point. Beyond it, the Will-strain damage is irreversible, and results in complete insanity and at times, the loss of higher brain functions.”

“A good answer,” Burberry said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sebastien could see the boy trying to shoot her a superior look. She didn’t turn toward or acknowledge him in any way.

He humphed and deflated a bit.

‘Childish.’

“Let me impress upon you all that even mild Will-strain is nothing to shrug off,” Burberry continued. “You will be excused from in-class exercises and casting homework if you bring a note confirming Will-strain from our infirmary, and the medics there are well-versed in treating it.”

She turned back to the next item on the board. “Now, Conduit failure. This danger can come as a sudden surprise to a thaumaturge, and, indeed, there is little warning. Most commonly, a Conduit fails because it is not rated for the volume of energy being channeled through it. This can happen as a sorcerer outgrows their crystal. This is also why we attempt to quantify the energy needed for modern spells, and note it. If your Conduit is not rated, get it tested, and do not cast spells above its limit. We will be testing your Will’s capacity on the Henrik-Thompson scale today. Your Conduit should always be more powerful than you are. If it is not, replace it immediately. For non-sorcerers, such as witches, who channel their magic through a contracted being, failure due to simple lack of channeling capacity is much rarer. Deliberate sabotage by an improperly bound being is more common, but beyond the purview of this class.”

She turned back to the board, tapping her chalk on the last item on the list. “Finally—and I hope none of you ever have to deal with this particular risk factor—extreme mishaps are common with those who cast blood magics and other depraved spells. You can corrupt your Will, which has consequences greater than any Will-strain or spell gone wrong.” Burberry paused and looked at the ground for a few long seconds, her rosy cheeks pale. “Those who cast magic with a corrupted Will have a chance to become an Aberrant. A grotesque, mindless monster bent on evil.” She didn’t elaborate further.

The class broke into murmurs. ‘Aberrants are like a scary story used to frighten children, to them,’ Sebastien mused. ‘They hear about them, but one has never touched their lives.’

“Some Aberrants still have enough of their higher brain function to cast magic.” Burberry looked to Sebastien. “They channel it through their own bodies. Which, incidentally, is another way to corrupt your Will, even with the most innocent of spells.”

Sebastien looked back at her, trying to show that she understood the woman’s point, though she still didn’t feel a simple mention of what was possible deserved such an overreaction.

The lecture turned to the other topics they would cover that term, and ended halfway through the ninety-minute period to allow time for the testing of their Wills.

Burberry brought out a crystal ball embedded in the surface of a complicated spell array etched in copper. This was the Henrik-Thompson measurement artifact, named after its creators. She dimmed the light crystals illuminating the room and lit a small brazier burning some kind of oil.

The students were to channel light through the crystal ball using the flame in the brazier as an energy source. Sebastien had tested herself in one of the larger cities she and Ennis had traveled through over a year prior. The Henrik-Thompson scale only measured the amount of energy someone could channel, not any of the other facets of Will power, but it was the most widely used metric, probably because it was easiest to test, and often showed correlation to the overall caliber of a thaumaturge’s Will. The brighter the light, the more power they were channeling per second.

Burberry placed a Conduit on the copper plate. “Everyone will cast with this today. It is rated to Master level, so have no fear of exceeding its capacity. Remember, if you test above your Conduit’s thaum rating, replace it as soon as possible.” She paused, then said firmly, “There will be no disturbances or distractions while another student is casting.”

Some students struggled to conduct even the barest flicker of light, even in the dimness of the room. Those were the people who didn’t come from rich families that only abided by the laws restricting learning or teaching magic when they saw fit. For some, it might even have been the first spell they ever cast, strange as that seemed to Sebastien. Many commoners never cast any real magic in their lifetimes.

The rich boy who seemed intent on quarreling with her didn’t hesitate in front of the spell array. He caused the crystal to glow brightly and held the light steady, clear evidence that he had long practice in spell casting. He glared down at it as he pushed his Will to its limits.

It was also obvious when Burberry showed neither surprise nor concern that the University didn’t expect these laws to be universally enforced. “One hundred sixty-six thaums.”

It was an impressive number, judging by the average of ten among true novices, and seventy from those who had prior experience casting. He shot Sebastien a smug look.

When it was her own turn, Sebastien was surprised by her performance. Under the steely force of her Will, the crystal glowed bright and brighter, and Burberry’s eyebrows rose slightly as it illuminated an area a few feet in diameter.

Sebastien felt like she might be able to push a little harder, but she was aware of the gazes of sudden interest or surprise. She was also aware of her lack of any real background. Sebastien was an illegitimate heir of the nonexistent Siverling family. With mild disappointment, she held the spell at its current power, and then released it. She wouldn’t be able to show them her prowess or superiority, but that was probably for the best. ‘Sebastien Siverling shouldn’t stand out, so once he’s gained his eventual certification, he can melt away without anyone being particularly interested.’

“Two hundred three thaums,” Burberry announced.

It was higher than Sebastien had thought it would be. ‘I’ve improved,’ she thought, keeping the pleased smile from her face.

The pretty girl who slept in the bed across from Sebastien’s gave her an assessing look, not even trying to be subtle about it, then raised an eyebrow toward her friend.

He scowled.

Sebastien gave him a bland look, then returned to her seat, the edges of her lips twitching.

Once everyone had finished, Burberry recommended the same remedial casting classes and supervised practice rooms Tanya and Newton had mentioned the day before. “Practice is extremely critical to improving your Will’s capacity. The more you practice, the faster you grow. For those of you on the lower end, you will find, with some variation due to talent and the effort you place into your practice, that your capacity improves by about one thaum for every fourteen hours of spellcasting. If you were to practice for an hour every day for the next ten years, you might find it only takes five hours to gain a thaum. Archmage Zard can gain a thaum in half that. Of course, he has to train with much more powerful magic to do so. The improvement from practice might be negligible in the short term, but over time, with dedication, it can be the difference between cooling your house to a comfortable temperature during the summer and saving an entire village from a forest fire. Your potential is limited only by your lifespan—which will be lengthened with consistent magic use—and your dedication to continually stretching your limits.”

‘Even the most powerful thaumaturges die eventually, though,’ Sebastien thought, thinking of her grandfather. ‘And if it were truly so easy to become an Archmage, there would be more of them.’

Burberry gave the class a handful of simple variations on a rudimentary spark-shooting spell meant to teach the students how to mold their mindset and their Will toward various effects and get comfortable writing spell arrays. She explained how the spell array worked in detail.

Sebastien had learned the spell as a child, to ward off animals. She hadn’t used all the spell array variations Burberry wanted them to practice, but as with most of the simple spells she’d learned that young, she had practiced creating sparks to exhaustion, perpetually entertained by the wonder of casting magic. She would have no trouble with any of the variations, even if she didn’t have the specific spell array meant to send the sparks shooting up, or change their color.

Burberry handed out little pouches with one lava berry, a dried fire salamander, and a small piece of flint, to be used as sympathetic components instead of the natural component of the heat within the Circle. She said nothing about returning these components after using them to practice, but none of the spell variations should actually consume them, so Sebastien hoped she would get to keep them. Growing her stock of components had been a never-ending struggle throughout her life, and for these, she figured she was paying the University more than enough.

It became more obvious which students had never really cast before as Burberry walked them through using tools to draw an even Circle and measuring the placement of the internal triangle used to cast this spell.

“For those of you with higher capacities, remember that growth comes from effort. If you can cast this spell easily with only a couple sparks, push yourself. Go to one of the supervised practice rooms and see how many sparks you can create at once, or how far you can get them to fly. Control the specific shade of the sparks as you change their color. If you are lazy, you will find that other students soon surpass you, and by the end of term it might be too late to put in effort. The University has no need for the lazy.”

Burberry let them practice for the last few minutes of class under her supervision, answering questions and correcting mistakes, and then told them to practice all the little variations on shooting sparks till they had a firm grasp on it before class on Wednesday.

After class, the boy who’d been doing his best to irritate her since they met brushed by her in the hallway. “Don’t get complacent, Siverling. Professor Lacer might see through you just as easily as Burberry did, and he doesn’t abide fools in his presence.”

She lost her patience, no longer finding his childish frustration with her superiority amusing. Sebastien rounded on him. “Listen, Westchester, Westerfield, whatever your name is, I’d appreciate it if you drop this little one-sided feud you’ve built up in your own mind and let me learn in peace. Do you have nothing important in your own life to tend to, that you must constantly stick your nose into mine?”

His eyes widened, then narrowed. “You don’t remember my name?” he asked suspiciously.

She sighed, looking toward the ceiling for patience. “We’re not friends. I wouldn’t even consider us acquaintances. And you’re certainly not my arch-nemesis, if that’s the impression you got from someone having the guts to call you out on your lack of manners. I can assure you, all the other ‘commoners’ in line were thinking it, too. Everyone else was simply too resigned to say it aloud.”

“I introduced myself to you when we met,” he said, still hung up on the surprise of not being the most memorable person in her life.

She stared at him flatly.

“The professor called my name in class.”

She threw up her hands and turned on her heel, striding off down the hallway. “I don’t have the time or patience for this,” she muttered. “I have to get to class.”

After a few seconds, he caught up to her, getting in front and then blocking her way. “My name is Westbay. Damien Westbay!” He jabbed a thumb at his chest, glaring at her. “Don’t forget it.”

“Oh, my mistake. Please continue while I take notes.” She twirled her hand dramatically, stepping around him and pulling out her map of the University to find her next class.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

I really enjoy exploring the world and magic a little more. Stuff like this will be fairly common in the story, as we learn along with Siobhan, so I hope you guys enjoy it as well!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-20-practical-will-based-casting/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 20 - Practical Will-based Casting

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 2, Monday 2:15 p.m.

Sebastien’s next class was Natural Science, which she found more fascinating than she had thought she would, mostly due to the enthusiasm of the professor. The classroom was large, and divided into two sections. One part was desks and seats for students to listen to lectures and take notes, while the other section was lined with sturdy slate tables and various pieces of equipment for them to do practical experiments.

Professor Gnorrish was a big, tall man—not the image one had of a person who spent all his time in the laboratory or library—and he had a big, tall personality and a passion for his field to match. His excited grin was infectious. He waved his arms about and let his voice boom while he spoke, and at one point Sebastien even thought he might jump up and down to better impress his enthusiasm upon them.

“Natural science is the new wave of magic, powerful because of the nature of reality, rather than in spite of it. It relies on the strength of the ties that bind reality together, rather than the strength of the caster alone. One day, I believe we will discover how to replicate all of transmogrification’s abilities with transmutation as our understanding of natural science grows.”

Some students seemed to find this ludicrous, a few rude snorts coming from a couple boys in expensive clothes.

Sebastien turned around to throw them a disdainful glare, and was surprised to find Westbay doing the same across from her. He had walked into the classroom a minute after her, and had studiously ignored her since then, which she found perfectly acceptable.

Professor Gnorrish didn’t seem to mind the obvious disagreement, though. He nodded to the boys who had snorted. “You think me naively optimistic, I assume. Yet, let me ask you this. Have we not accomplished things in the last one hundred years that the humans of aeons past would have considered impossible to achieve without transmogrification by a powerful thaumaturge?” He reeled off a list of achievements and names, and when he finished, all the students were silent. “What more might we accomplish in one hundred more years?”

At the end of class, he instructed them to borrow and read certain books from the library, which held multiple copies of his specified texts, and then released them.

It was her free period next. Despite the pangs of hunger from her stomach, Sebastien went to the library rather than the cafeteria. She wanted to get there before all the other students picked the shelves bare of the assigned books.

Sebastien borrowed them with her student token, then sat at a table and flipped through each to gauge how long they would take her to read. She doubted the dorm room would be the best place to get work done, at least not while the other students were awake. After a few minutes, she put the books in her leather satchel and went to browse the shelves. ‘If I ever do anything to jeopardize my status as a student here, I will lose access to all these books. More books than I could read in a lifetime. I would rather cut off my own toes with a sharpened spoon.’

Thinking of the encrypted book in her room at Dryden Manor, she searched for guides on decryption. Most of them were on one of the floors still unavailable to her. The subject was large and complex, and a quick perusal showed that many of the books were beyond her comprehension. She found a couple primers meant for children, as well as a book on unlocking, nullifying, and revealing spells. She checked all three out.

Even the lure of the books all around her couldn’t distract her from making it to her next class on time. She’d been looking forward to and dreading it in equal parts since being accepted to the University. She stopped by the cafeteria to eat and quickly found her way to her next class.

Professor Lacer’s classroom was the largest she’d been in so far. Introduction to Practical Will-based Casting was her first elective, and probably popular enough to need all the desks stretching out and upward toward the back of the room.

Sebastien sat close to the front of the already filling room, trying not to fiddle from a combination of impatience and nervousness. ‘Professor Lacer may have saved me, but he also knows what an idiot I can be. He cannot have been impressed by my tantrum during the examination.’ She stilled, the remembered shame calming her. ‘But he must have seen potential in me, too. I just have to make sure he doesn’t regret his decision.’

“I heard Professor Lacer is the youngest free-caster in the last three centuries,” a man said.

“I heard he should be an Archmage already, but the council of Grandmasters just doesn’t want to recognize him because he’s too young and not from any noble bloodline,” someone else said.

“Archmage? That’s impossible,” a girl interjected, shaking her head. “I don’t care how talented he is, you need decades of practice to get that powerful. Archmage Zard wasn’t given the title until he was eighty-three. Professor Lacer can’t even be fifty yet.”

“He could be older. Heavy magic use keeps you revitalized, you know…” another girl said doubtfully. “I’m hoping learning how to free-cast will keep me wrinkle-free until I’m at least older than my mother.”

Another girl snorted derisively at that, and Sebastien suppressed the urge to nod in agreement.

“Well, I heard he was part of the Red Guard after the war,” yet another young man said, his voice hushed as if sharing a secret.

“Oh, that’s definitely true. My uncle told me the coat he wears all the time is actually an artifact spelled against blood magic curses,” the first man said. “It’s made of the skin of a half-troll, half-giant that Lacer killed during the Haze War.”

The girl who’d snorted earlier laughed. “Your uncle is either telling you tall tales, or he’s as gullible as you apparently are.”

Drawn by the conversation, another boy walked over and sat with the group of gossipers. “Did you guys hear what he did to that girl who tried to break into his house and seduce him a couple years back?”

“What?” the girl who was worried about wrinkles gasped, one hand covering her open mouth. “Who? What did she—I mean…”

The newest addition to their group nodded sagely. “My sister was a student when it happened. The girl was an upper-term research assistant, and apparently she thought Lacer was just shy when he kept rejecting her. So she tried to break through the wards to his house wearing only a cloak—nothing underneath at all! Of course, things didn’t go like she expected.” He paused dramatically as the others leaned in and urged him to continue. “His wards triggered around her and left her tied up, half naked, and green-skinned. When he found her he cursed her to never feel physical desire again, and gave her a huge, hairy wart on the end of her nose so no one else would be tempted, either.”

“No,” another boy said, leaning back and crossing his arms. He shook his head. “A professor wouldn’t do that. I mean, he probably expelled her, but they can’t just get away with cursing students whenever they feel like it.”

“Yeah, Professor Lacer’s not evil,” the girl said with a “humph.”

“But he is really strict,” the first man said. “I heard he expelled a student for coughing on him in the cafeteria.”

There were nods all around, and the conversation turned to free-casting, each student taking it in turns to brag about all the cool things they planned to do once they were able to free-cast.

Only after all the seats were filled—Sebastien was sure half the first term students had signed up for the class—did Professor Lacer stalk in, a long trench coat flapping behind him as the fabric tried to keep up with his long stride. His hair was again tied back simply at the nape of his neck. His eyebrows were bushy and winged, adding to the piercing nature of his dark eyes. He kept a beard short enough that its attempts to grow wild were restrained. Overall, his appearance matched his reputation: impatient, dangerous, and extremely competent.

He stopped in the middle of the room, staring out and up at them. It took merely seconds for the room to quiet. “Welcome to Practical Will-based Casting, or as my upper-term students like to call it, Practical Casting. In it, I will teach those of you who are willing to learn how to do what I can do.” His words were heavy with importance, though he did not shout. He turned and pointed his finger to the far side of the lecture stage.

Sebastien’s hair fluttered, though there had been no wind, and suddenly, a person appeared where before there had been nothing, standing near the wall.

She jumped in surprise, as did most of the other students, but calmed herself when she saw it was just a practice dummy. Why it had been invisible, she did not know, but she assumed it had been for dramatic effect.

Thaddeus Lacer kept pointing. His Conduit, large and clear, peeked out from the curled fingers of his pointing hand.

His other hand, held at his side, was gripping a beast core just the right size to fit within his grasp and allow his middle finger and thumb to touch.

‘Is he forming the Sacrifice Circle out of his own hand?’ Most modern magic used physical, external Circles, though older, more esoteric spells didn’t always. Sometimes a spell could be bounded by your own body, or even something intrinsically attached and belonging to you, like your shadow.

The simple shadow-familiar spell she’d shown off to Katerin, letting it writhe and seem to come to life, used the heat of her breath going through a Circle made of her hands along with the light that touched her shadow. But even with a low-powered spell like that, the air between her hands would ripple visibly with the energy being channeled.

At the tip of his outstretched finger, a spark of orange light appeared. It swirled around his fingertip and was quickly joined by others. They multiplied and coalesced in front of his finger until they formed a pulsing, bright orange ball.

Sebastien could see no shimmer, glow, or any other sign that he was channeling energy, except for the fireball hovering beyond the tip of his finger. The efficiency was superb.

Without warning, that ball shot across the room toward the dummy, expanding a little as it went. On impact, it exploded.

Sebastien felt the warm wind blow past her face.

On the far side of the classroom, the practice dummy rocked back and forth on its stand, smoking and half ripped apart.

Professor Lacer turned back to the students. “It is not necessary to contain the target of your spell within a Circle before you cast. This should be obvious. A battle wand can cast a stunning spell at a distance, but have you ever heard of someone casting a transmogrification spell to turn a distant frog into a bird?” He paused, scanning the class. “No? Why is this?”

He turned, taking a few steps to make his coat flare out dramatically again. “Is it because transmogrification does not work unless you have the target within your domain of influence?” He paused as if waiting for someone to speak up, but no one did. “I can assure you that is not the case. Is it because a being’s skin and inherent magic act as a barrier against invasive magics?” Another expectant pause. “Inherent magic is a barrier, but I can overcome it within a drawn Circle, and I can also overcome it with the fireball I just cast. Is the seeming limitation because the stunning spell, or the fireball, is much less complicated than whatever spell could turn a frog into a bird? Perhaps people simply do not have the skill to cast such magics at a distance. What do you think?”

No one answered him.

“A fireball spell shoots an actual ball of fire at the target. A revealing spell shoots vibrations and magic waves, which penetrate and then bounce back to the wand for interpretation. A stunning spell shoots a specific, low-current variation of lightning, along with the powdered saliva of a Kuthian frog, contained within a field of force. Upon release from the spell, the treated saliva rapidly degrades and becomes inert. The stunning spell is the most difficult of the three, and still only possible because the saliva needs no augmentation or other spellwork to do what it does. The common point of all these spells is that they are shooting something that exists in nature, not simply magic bound to an idea. However, with a complex enough, powerful enough spell, there is no reason that one could not shoot a spherical ranged attack that turns a frog into a bird, overcoming the creature’s resistance to magic and maintaining the complex magical instructions and power to do so over distance. The Archmage can do it. The theory is that you are literally shooting the Circle and its Word at the target. It is so hard, and requires so much power, that most sorcerers will never succeed at it in their lives, and indeed, most do not truly attempt to do so.”

‘Can you do it, Thaddeus Lacer?’ Sebastien wondered.

He turned, pointing at the wrecked practice dummy. “That is your eventual goal. At the end of nine terms, when you achieve your Mastery, one in twenty of you might have reached the level of competence that allows you to free-cast the simplest spells at range. However, unless you attempt Grandmastery, it is a more realistic goal for the majority of you to be able to free-cast normal spells, contained within an actual, physical Circle, rather than at range. Much less glamorous, but still versatile and incredibly useful. If any of you manage to free-cast a spell that requires complex magical instruction, at range, within your time at the University, I will be stunned.”

He palmed a stick of chalk, seemingly from nowhere, and drew a Circle on the ground around him. He added no glyphs, no attached component Circles or instructions. The wind was already pulling at Sebastien’s hair by the time Lacer had stood up. The man raised his arms, and the wind turned into a gale, pulling at her body and the very air in her lungs.

She gripped the edge of her desk for balance and kept her eyes greedily trained on him.

Professor Lacer began to levitate, the air under his feet shimmering like a mirage in the distance as he compressed it.

Casting spells on your own body was dangerous. This kind of levitation required him to stand within the Circle, as Professor Burberry had just warned so stridently against. Of course, Professor Lacer had proved his competence and control many times over.

‘Why doesn’t he simply use the platform spell Tanya cast at orientation?’ Sebastien thought. ‘I suppose there are any number of ways a powerful sorcerer can lift themselves from the ground. This method is certainly impressive.’Even though she knew it was meant to motivate her, Sebastien found herself no less inspired.

“I can teach you all to do this. I can teach you to be both versatile and powerful,” he announced, settling back to the ground as the air pressure returned to normal. “Yet somehow, the statistics show that four out of ten students will drop this class in the first three weeks. Seven out of ten either stop attending voluntarily, or cannot pass this class by the end of term. Failure in my class will not stop you from continuing on to the next term in the remainder of your classes, but why do so few students succeed?”

He paused to stare them down. “Because,” he said, and suddenly his voice was louder, “this is the hardest class the University offers. It requires both intelligence and dogged determination. You will spend an hour and a half with me, three days per week, not two. If you wish to succeed, you must spend an additional two hours practicing on your own. Every. Single. Day. And that is if you already have some experience with sorcery. If your capacity hasn’t reached at least fifty thaums, you will struggle to keep up, and I recommend you return to the class next term. If you are not prepared or not willing to spend that much time, feel free to go to Administration after the end of this class and remove yourself. In the meantime, let us get to work. As I have established, there is no time to waste.”

A student raised their hand, and when Lacer called on them, asked, “Is it true you killed a dragon in the Haze Wars?”

Lacer scowled. “I am not here for gossip and dramatic stories. If that is the only reason you are here, get out.”

The student shrank back, but didn’t leave.

Professor Lacer motioned them up to the front of the class, where a pallet filled with squat cylindrical containers and small oil braziers appeared against the wall the same way the practice dummy had. “They are marked by difficulty. If your Will capacity is over one hundred fifty thaums, see me.” He glanced briefly at Sebastien.

Curious, Sebastien eyed the cylinders, which were shaped like six-inch cross-sections of a tree trunk. Or a wide wheel of cheese. They were glass-topped and seemed to be filled with water and a metal ball. When she approached, Lacer pulled out a similar squat cylinder from under his desk. It was filled with transparent sand instead of water, and the metal ball nestled within was jagged, and bigger than the ones in the water containers.

She wasn’t the only one to get sand, which was a bit of a relief after the other students’ showing in Intro to Modern Magics. ‘I suppose it makes sense that the smartest, most hardworking students would be the ones to take Lacer’s class. Among the larger student population, I don’t really stand out at all.’ The thought disappointed her a little, even though she knew it was best that no one had a reason to look at her too closely.

Suppressing a grunt of effort, she picked up the heavy glass wheel and returned it to her desk.

Professor Lacer then instructed them place the wheel inside the Circle carved into their desks, drawing the Word over the glass top. With only three glyphs and a single numerological symbol, they were to send the iron ball rolling around the cylinder, reversing direction at random. For extra difficulty—and again he looked at Sebastien—they were to keep the ball from touching the outer edge of the wheel as it spun around.

“In this class, we will attempt to move away from the reliance on a complicated written Word. To become a free-caster, you must be able to hold the entirety of the Word within your own mind. I am going to improve not just your Will’s overall capacity, but also the other facets—explosiveness, endurance, clarity, force, and soundness. However, you will start with casting spells of moderate difficulty for long periods of time, till you are able to hold them almost without conscious effort. It has to become instinct. It will take years of effort to become proficient. The difficulty of this first exercise depends largely on how quickly you move the ball through the medium. Attempt to reach a stable output no more than seventy percent of your maximum capacity. Do not stop casting.”

With that, he turned away and plopped down at the desk at the front corner of the room.

Sebastien drew a triangle, since this was transmutation—heat energy into kinetic energy. A pentagon was more versatile, but she didn’t think she needed it, here, and a tighter fit to the purpose of the spell could improve her efficiency. For the glyphs, she chose “fire,” “movement,” and “circle” the last of which she had learned recently.

After only a few minutes of forcing her ball through the sand, Sebastien began to feel the fatigue.

When a couple other students stopped casting, Professor Lacer looked up, his lazy expression contrasted against the snap in his voice. “If you are not approaching Will-strain, I expect you to continue casting. If you are approaching Will-strain already, I suggest you drop this class and return to it in a term or two when you have built up your stamina.” He didn’t look at Sebastien this time, but she took the words to heart.

She settled back in her seat, relaxing tense muscles and taking her eye off the circling ball. It continued moving, and she settled into deep, slow breaths, watching with an unfocused gaze. She had always been one to practice casting almost obsessively, even if not so deliberately as Lacer had instructed. She had often played with whatever small new spell she’d learned until Ennis grew irritated with her. It served her well, here. Sebastien didn’t know how long it had been when her mind started to burn. Not a real sensation, like the burn of overworked muscles, but a feeling, a strain. She breathed deeper and sank into it.

Fingers snapping in front of her face brought her back to reality.

She looked up to find Professor Lacer standing in front of her. “Class is over.”

The rest of the students were standing up from their desks, some of them moving toward the door with their practice equipment, more of them looking at her and Lacer.

She cleared her throat and let the ball slow to a stop.

“Passably well done,” he said. “Are you ready for our meeting?”

“Y—” Her voice broke, and she had to try again. “Yes.”

“Homework!” he announced sharply, raising his voice so everyone could hear, but still looking at her. “Write down every possible glyph that could be used to cast this spell, as well as ten different, fully detailed spell arrays that could do the job. Due at the beginning of next class. Dismissed.”

One of the students grumbled, “I thought this was practical casting, not practical essay-writing.”

“Understanding the processes is the first step to being able to take over those processes from an external Word,” Professor Lacer snapped back much louder, not even looking at the student. In a softer voice he said to Sebastien, “To my office, then. Keep up.” He turned and strode away, barely acknowledging the students who either stared or scrambled to move out of his path.

Sebastien grabbed her satchel and the wheel of sand, and stumbled after him, limping slightly on legs that had fallen asleep while she cast.

The hallway had curved far enough to cut off their view of the classroom door when footsteps ran up behind them. Sebastien was exasperated to find it was Damien Westbay. Again.

“Professor Lacer, would you mind if I accompany you both? I have some questions for you.” He glanced at Sebastien out of the corner of his eye, just a little too intently.

Sebastien resisted the urge to snort. ‘Obviously, he wants to spy on my conversation with Professor Lacer.’

Lacer let the silence stretch on just long enough to become uncomfortable, but when he spoke, his voice held a faint hint of amusement. “I am sure your questions can wait, Damien. You may drop by my office in half an hour.”

“I could just wait outside your door. I—” Westbay cut off when Professor Lacer raised his eyebrows.

“Half an hour, Mr. Westbay.” His words were enunciated and precise, not unkind, but still intimidating. He turned to stalk away, assured that his instructions would be followed.

Westbay pursed his lips in a way that looked unflatteringly close to a pout, but didn’t follow as Sebastien hurried after their professor.

When they got to Lacer’s office, which was done in dark woods and bright lights, with all four walls covered in bookcases and shelves holding interesting magical components and artifacts, he motioned for her to sit at the chair in front of his desk. He spoke while walking around the room, taking things from shelves and cabinets and placing them in a box. “I hope you understand that, due to the unusual nature of your attendance here, you must perform to my expectations if you wish to remain a student, Mr. Siverling.”

Sebastien nodded. “I do.”

“Your performance today was not as pitiful as many of the other students in my class, but still far from the standards I expect. To remedy this, you will practice additional casting exercises.” He set the box on the desk in front of her and then handed her a sheet of paper filled with instructions. “You must be able to perform each exercise for two hours without stop, at an acceptable level of control.”

“What is an acceptable level?” she asked, scanning over the exercises on the sheet.

He sat behind his desk. “Are you asking me so that you can achieve the absolute minimum standard of competence?” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “It will be up to you to decide what is acceptable. Do not disappoint me.”

She felt she could not possibly sit any straighter, or hold her stomach muscles any tighter. “I understand. When do you wish me to complete this by?”

“As quickly as possible. I am testing you, Mr. Siverling. I hope that is obvious. I wish to be sure I did not make a mistake.” It was not a subtle threat.

‘Two hours a day of practice will not be enough, then,’ she thought. She had no intention of disappointing him. “I understand,” she said again. “Is there anything else?”

He stared at her over the desk, his elbows resting on it and his fingers pressed together. Then he leaned back in his chair. “No. You may go.”

She stood and bowed politely. “Thank you, Professor Lacer. You are the reason I am here, and I know it. I will not disappoint you.”

“See that you do not.”

She paused in the doorway and turned back. “Why did you keep me from being expelled and banned?” She’d decided not to ask, but her curiosity had overridden her good sense.

“You are an idiot. But I try to remind myself periodically how foolish I too was at your age. It is easy to forget. Perhaps you will be able to learn better, as I did.”

She nodded silently, feeling a strange combination of shame and hope.

His dark gaze followed her as she left the room, and she took a couple deep breaths to compose herself before hurrying toward the library with the heavy box in one arm and the wheel of sand in the other. She had work to do, and a plan to create.

A note from AzaleaEllis



Hey guys! Comments, questions, and ratings/reviews are much appreciated. They'll help more people to find this story.

Read the next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-21-no-greatness-without-adversity/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 21 - No Greatness Without Adversity

Thaddeus

Month 11, Day 2, Monday 3:15 p.m.

Thaddeus watched as the Siverling boy left the room with a stride so supremely self-assured it bordered on arrogant. The contrast of such dark eyes against pale hair made Siverling seem both perceptive and secretive, as if perhaps he had already divined all your inner thoughts, and was only keeping them to himself because he wished to. That composure would serve him well, if he managed to keep from killing himself over the next few years before achieving a basic level of competence.

A knock on his door frame brought his head up to see Damien, his old friend’s son, standing in the doorway.

“Come in.”

“Who is he?” Damien said impatiently, dropping his satchel and sitting in the chair before Thaddeus’s desk.

“Hello to you too, Damien.”

The boy sighed and rolled his eyes. “Hello, Professor, how do you do, etcetera, etcetera. Do we really need to trade such mundane greetings every time we meet? Was it not you who said needless pleasantries were the conversational defense of the unimaginative and boring?”

Thaddeus allowed the boy a small smile. “Indeed. ‘He’ is Sebastien Siverling.”

“That’s not what I meant at all. I know his name,” Damien said bitterly, adding, “even if he can’t remember mine,” under his breath. Louder, he continued, “What’s so special about him? I’ve been hearing all kinds of rumors.”

“I have taken him as my provisional apprentice.”

“So it is true!” Damien crowed. “I knew it. But you’ve never taken an apprentice before! Not even the heir of the High Crown was able to sway you, I heard. Were you planning to make him your apprentice from the beginning? Is that why you got so angry that I argued with him?”

“Reprimanding you for your foolishness had nothing to do with this. But no, I had not planned to take an apprentice this year. There were…extenuating circumstances.”

“Is the Siverling family so influential, then? I’ve never heard of them.”

Thaddeus resisted the urge to rub his temples to ease the headache building there. “Let me remind you, he is only a provisional apprentice. The Siverling family’s influence, or lack thereof, has nothing to do with it.”

Damien nodded. “So it was his display in the examination. No components? A darkness sphere and a blue flame?” The boy had lost his air of immature curiosity and was staring at Thaddeus with total seriousness. “I admit it looked impressive, but was that really all it took?”

Thaddeus leaned back in his seat, almost impressed despite himself. “Snooping, were you?”

“I was waiting my own turn, and happened to see when the door was opened. I cannot help it if my eyes work.”

Thaddeus snorted. “Well, that was a part of it. Suffice it to say, I was intrigued.” The Siverling boy’s written test scores may have merely reached deep green, but Thaddeus had looked through the answers he felt were most relevant to determining mental acuity and intelligence.

Siverling was lacking in knowledge, and had obviously written his answers as if he expected a human to read and grade them, but he also knew how to think about an unconventional problem and try to solve it. Perhaps with guidance, he could learn how to think properly about more than test questions. Also, of course, there was the fact that Thaddeus did not believe for an instant the boy’s clumsy evasion when asked about his previous experience as a sorcerer.

He had been impressed by the boy’s use of light. Controlling light as a component or energy source required both clarity and force of Will. He knew there was no way the boy had encircled enough heat, or had the ability to channel enough even if it had existed, to create a flame so hot it turned blue. The boy had repurposed the light to create the flame, with only a moderate amount of heat radiating off it.

Thaddeus had also been impressed that Siverling was able to speak coherently after dropping the spell, rather than simply passing out.

But what most impressed him was that the boy was able to set the spell's output—the flame—outside of the sphere bounded by the chalk Circle. Not just at a static distance, but freely. This ability was one of the main hallmarks of true free-casting. He didn’t teach it in his class until the later terms, and most students had a mental block that simply didn’t allow them to make the leap in control. After seeing that, none of the other professors should have been willing to let him slip through their fingers. If Thaddeus had had to, he would have sponsored the boy’s tuition fees himself.

No matter what Siverling said, he had definitely practiced sorcery for years already. Either that, or he was some kind of monstrous genius.

But Thaddeus was a monstrous genius, and even he would have struggled to channel that many thaums when he first began to cast.

Thaddeus imagined most of the other incoming students could not control that spell longer than a second or two without it slipping their control and causing serious backlash. When the boy had started casting it despite the half-finished, inefficient spell array, Thaddeus had thought they would have to scrape Siverling’s remains off the floor before calling in the next student. Instead, Siverling and the room both remained entirely intact.

Of course, the boy was a moron for even attempting it, but Thaddeus knew that if he required all his students to be thoughtful, intelligent, and talented, he would end up leaving the University in a rage after never teaching anyone that met his standards.

“What did you meet with him about? Are you giving him special training?” Damien didn’t wait for Thaddeus to respond. “I have been asking for special training since I was six!”

“I gave him a list of additional exercises to complete, on top of the normal work other students will be doing. He received no special instruction.”

“I want to do the extra exercises too,” Damien said immediately.

“Do you not think you will be busy enough with the regular assignments? I heard you’re taking Divination on top of my own class, and Fekten’s.”

“If Siverling can do it, I can do it, too. Also, it’s not as if this requires any extra work on your part. You’ve already compiled the assignments for him. What does it matter if I learn as well? As you said, you gave him no special instruction that would require you to actually make an effort.” The boy crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head to the side provocatively.

“Watch your words, Mr. Westbay.” The warning was mild, and held no true offense. Thaddeus thought for a moment, then stood and began collecting another set of the same devices and supplies he had given to Siverling. They were all from future exercises his classes performed, so he had many duplicates. “If your grades drop in any of your other classes…” He did not even need to complete the threat.

“They won’t! I promise.”

Thaddeus wrote down the instructions for each exercise. “The goal is to master these by the end of term. I imagine this will take three to four hours of practice every day.”

Damien’s eyes widened, but he didn’t back down.

As Thaddeus shooed the boy out of his office and returned to his own work, he shook his head ruefully. He thought of the little altercation between the two boys at the application center the month before. Perhaps a little rivalry would push both of them to greater heights. It would be good for Damien to interact with someone who did not care about his status and would challenge him on the basis of merit alone. It might even give the two of them a boost for what he had planned once the chaff had been culled from his class in a few weeks.

Greatness did not come without adversity.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Reviews and comments much appreciated! What are your thoughts about Thaddeus and Damien?

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/grimoire-page-spark-shooting-spell/

Table of contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 22 - Sympathy & Defense

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note: Thank you to my patrons! This week's extra chapter is dedicated to (and because of) you. Thank you for helping me reach my first Patreon goal and supporting this story.

Happy Reading!
Azalea

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 2, Monday 3:25 p.m.

Sebastien changed her mind halfway to the library and instead took the box of magical exercise supplies Lacer had given her to her room and locked them in the trunk at the base of her bed. ‘It wouldn’t do to have someone sabotage my ability to meet Professor Lacer’s expectations.’ Then, she went to the library and got to work.

She had an astounding amount to accomplish, and not very much time to do it in. Even a mind like hers couldn’t coast through what lay ahead. ‘Five days of classes per week. Six classes, four of which meet two times, and two which meet three times, for a total of twenty-one hours sitting in class per week. Say I study six hours per week for every class but Practical Casting, which I must spend more than two hours per day on if I wish to catch up. Another four hours per day for meals, hygiene, walking between classes, and other unavoidable transition time. It might be possible to keep working at a lower efficiency during those times, but I also need time for my mind to relax, or I might start having Will problems. Additionally, if I want to repay my debt before the interest drowns me, I need to get started with the alchemy Katerin and the Verdant Stag need. I can do that on the weekends.’

She looked down at the number she had scribbled on the edge of her new leather notebook. ‘That’s almost as many hours as most people are awake every week. Speaking of, I will probably need to increase my total hours of sleep. Perhaps I can take naps in the late afternoon.’ She was thankful that Professor Lacer had warned her not to take on more than six classes. If she had taken Artificery as well, she would probably collapse under the workload.

She read from the list of books recommended by Professor Gnorrish for a couple hours, then started Professor Lacer’s homework. It took her longer than she had expected, and the dinner hour was almost over by the time she finished creating ten different fully realized spell arrays that could move the ball around the Circle. She rushed off to eat, then returned to her dorm, where most of the other students were already gathered. Many of them were chatting or working on schoolwork, creating a dull murmur of undistinguishable sound.

Sebastien pulled the pillow off her bed and sat on it cross-legged on the floor, drawing a simple spell array in front of her. She lit her small oil lamp to act as the source of heat energy. By the time she had pushed the steel ball around for thirty minutes, her head was aching and she had trouble concentrating—early signs of Will-strain. If she continued, she wouldn’t be able to cast her dreamless sleep and alarm spells, so she pulled her curtains and went to bed early.

The familiar feel of her heart pounding brought her from sleep into wakefulness. She stood with carefully controlled movements and drew back the curtain to press herself against the cool glass of the window beside her bed. The condensation of her breath fogged up the glass, and she drew a little sad face on it.

The sad face faded away, and she found herself looking at her own faint reflection. Dark eyes, sharp jaw, and shockingly pale hair framing it all. The only things she recognized were the eyes. ‘Those are still mine. My eyes staring out of this mask.’

As silently as possible, she returned to her locked chest and removed the sand wheel. This time, she used a different set of glyphs than the day before, and mentally redesigned the method of movement. While researching the different spell arrays the evening before, she had come up with some more innovative ways to accomplish the goal. Before, she had been directly controlling the ball as it moved around, guiding it with a mental hand. There were other ways to approach the problem, though, a couple of which she found particularly interesting.

She practiced for almost an hour by the light and power of the oil lamp, finding that the magic calmed her faster than she had expected. The steady, soothing whisper of disturbed sand was audible in the stillness.

Shifting from the bed across from her drew Sebastien’s attention, as the girl threw off her covers and stood up.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I wake y—”

The girl waved her arm at Sebastien clumsily and stumbled off toward the bathrooms, her eyes still unfocused with sleep. When she returned a few minutes later, she seemed a little more awake. “Practicing for Professor Lacer?” she asked.

Sebastien nodded. “I apologize if I disturbed your rest, Miss…?”

“Anastasia Gervin,” the girl said, sitting at the foot of her own bed with her legs crossed, her long, loose hair catching the light of the lamp’s flame artlessly.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Gervin.” Sebastien bowed slightly from her seated position.

“Please, call me Ana. There are a few too many Gervins enrolled here to be so formal. It causes confusion. And I know your name already. We met a while ago, when my cousin Alec was being such a braying ass.”

Sebastien couldn’t help the twitch of a smile at the description, though she didn’t allow it to disarm her. ‘She might commiserate with me in private and then do the same with others behind my back.’ Aloud, she said, “I remember. I wasn’t sure you would.”

The girl gave her that same crooked smile she had the day of the entrance application. “You may be more memorable than you think.” Before Sebastien could try to figure out what she meant by that, she continued. “You have quite the dedication, to wake up in the middle of the night just to practice. No wonder Professor Lacer picked you.”

Sebastien knew the girl was mistaken, but didn’t want to say so. “I find it best to be prepared.”

Ana gave a little smirk. “It is a good policy, but do you not need to sleep?”

“I have trouble sleeping,” Sebastien admitted. “I’ll lie down again in a while, when I’ve grown tired.”

Ana hummed noncommittally, returning to her bed and closing her eyes.

Drawing her curtains again to help shield the light of the lamp, Sebastien did the same. Thicker curtains would be useful to keep from disturbing the other dorm residents, if she wanted to continue practicing magic at her bed while they slept.

With two sessions of sleep, Sebastien again woke feeling more refreshed than she normally did, despite the strain she had been putting on her mind.

Sebastien’s first class of the day was History of Magic. For once, Damien Westbay did not seem to be there. Nor were any of other people she recognized from her student group.

Professor Ilma, a woman with faintly blue skin evincing a partially inhuman heritage, got right into the meat of the class, wasting no time easing them into things.

She started at the beginning. “When was magic first discovered by humans? Historical research and archeology suggest the earliest thinking humans had rudimentary magic. Fires started without tools, animals charmed to do their bidding, structures molded beyond the capabilities of concurrent technology. It is not known whether humans discovered magic organically, or whether those who walked the earth before us had some hand in our uplifting. Theories in favor of both arguments are plentiful among historians. You’ll be writing an essay that considers the most valid arguments for both sides, due next week.”

She waited while the class hurried to scribble that down, then continued. “However, some say the ability to do magic is not the thing that led us to our current civilization. Magic is merely a tool, and it is our ability to cooperate and work together for the betterment of all that has led to our current greatness. And yet!” She raised one blue finger higher. “And yet, it has taken us thousands of years to reach this point. Part of this may simply be the nature of civilization—incremental growth based on our forefathers’ accomplishments. Part of this may be that the ancient world after the Cataclysm was too dangerous for real human society to thrive. It was hard to build a city at a time when a Titan might walk by and crush half of it, like a child kicking at an anthill…and then eat all the ants that lay scattered about for good measure. Let us speculate for a moment about the cause of the downfall of the Titans, the Fey, the Brillig. So powerful, with magics even our most distinguished cannot match, and yet, they are gone, and we are still here. Why? Is it simply the natural state of things that all powerful beings must one day fall, that all empires must crumble?”

Sebastien was enraptured.

Professor Ilma gave them a list of books she recommended reading and shooed them out of her classroom.

Her second class was Sympathetic Science. Sebastien almost jumped when Anastasia Gervin slammed her hand down on the desk beside her, but looked up to find the other girl glaring in the opposite direction.

Ana turned to Sebastien, assuming a bright smile. “Sebastien. You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?”

‘Who was she glaring at?’ Sebastien shook her head mutely, keeping the consternation from her expression. “Not at all. Please feel free.”

Anastasia’s cousin, the one with the bushy dark eyebrows, shot Sebastien a glare that she ignored, while Westbay plopped himself down on Sebastien’s other side.

She felt herself stiffening and hoped it wasn’t noticeable. ‘This feels remarkably like a pincer attack.’ However, other than a shrewd look from Westbay, no one did anything to justify her apprehension.

An old man wearing a jacket he had probably bought in his teenage years, when it would have been stylish, walked in and introduced himself as Professor Pecanty. He had a lilting cadence and a slow rhythm to his words that made everything he said sound like poetry. “Let us talk about metaphor. ‘Silken lies fell from her lips.’ ‘Her hair was spun gold.’ ‘I swam through an ocean of uncertainty.’ These are a few examples. Consider, that three strings of silk are used in Rimple’s minor truth-telling spell. A sprinkle of gold glitter is a component in Curoe’s fairness potion, to make the complexion and hair bright. Sea spray gathered on a moonless night is used in a couple forgetfulness hexes.”

As Professor Pecanty delved deeper into the connection between ephemeral concepts and magic, part of Sebastien’s mind began to spin a thread of curiosity.

Dryden had told her various stories about his travels through the surrounding countries, and even a couple forays into the lands held by other species. He’d had more than one amusing or embarrassing incident stemming from cultural difference.

Like the time everyone at the table except him had burped, and then his host had been offended that he didn’t, which was a vulgar indication that Dryden didn’t like the meal.

Or the story about how he’d almost been killed by the town guard when he offered his hand to help a limping woman wearing a red sash, which denoted her status as a revered giver of blessings, and thus untouchable.

Or the time he accidentally proposed to a woman old enough to be his grandmother by hauling water from the well for her. That one had been particularly hilarious, as everyone had been too embarrassed to tell him why they were acting so awkwardly, but no one thought to ask him if he knew what he’d done. The misunderstanding had lasted for several days of increasing confusion as everyone kept working at cross-purposes and misconstruing his later actions based on that first innocuous favor.

‘But we don’t hold those customs or belief here in Lenore. So what about the sympathetic connections he’s talking about? Here, red is associated with passion, blood, and death, not divine blessings, isolation, or being “set apart.” Could I use a red sash for those qualities? Does magic somehow choose which meanings an item can be used for? Or could I use any of them?’

She frowned, scribbling notes and questions in her grimoire. She felt like some larger understanding was revolving just out of reach, revealing only a part of itself to her through the darkness. ‘Different people will have languages with different structures, tell different stories, use different metaphors. To them, it’s us who would seem strange for connecting silk to a truth-telling spell, or sea spray gathered on a moonless night to a curse.’

She shifted uncomfortably, Pecanty’s rhythmic voice fading from her focus as her fingers tightened around her fountain pen. ‘People all around the world use transmogrification. It’s the earliest form of magic. We were doing things with transmogrification long before we learned the principles behind how to replicate these effects with transmutation. Have there been historical uses of components that have fallen out of use in favor of new interpretations of their sympathetic connections? It seems impossible for anything else to be the case. Humanity’s perception of the world has changed greatly over the last few thousand years. So if transmogrification worked for ancient humans, and it works for foreigners, and even other species whose cultures are completely different, these sympathetic connections couldn’t be an inherent property of magic…right? It couldn’t be that we’ve somehow instinctively discovered completely contradictory sympathetic connections for the same colors, and numbers, and components. It has to be created by…us?’

The idea was strange, and vaguely frightening. She set down her pen and tried to focus on the lecture. She needed to learn what Pecanty had to say, in case they would be tested. She couldn’t afford to perform poorly due to distraction.

After class, she stayed behind to ask Professor Pecanty about her revelation.

“Experimental evidence?” he echoed, as if the words were foreign, or perhaps egregiously unrelated to the topic. “Why, the proof is all around you. Transmogrification works on those intrinsic qualities, and attempting to cast a spell with a component that does not meet the qualifications is either difficult or impossible.”

She frowned. “But how does it work? Who decides what the intrinsic qualities are? If I began telling everyone that pigeons can read the evil in their heart, and they believed it, would I be able to use pigeon eyeballs in an intent-scrying spell? Or would I, who knows pigeons cannot, in fact, read the evil hidden in a heart, be unable to use them? Does magic warp to fit new understandings or beliefs? If so, how quickly? Are there transmogrification spells used historically that no longer work today? What if I were the one who truly believed pigeons could read the evil in my heart, and everyone else thought pigeons were simply stupid flying pests?”

Professor Pecanty blinked at her for a moment, rocking back on his feet. “Who decides the intrinsic qualities?” he repeated, as if the question was slightly humorous. “Why, it is the purview of the young to ask such questions. It seems one with such an…analytical mind as yourself might do very well in the Natural Sciences. Myself, I think such questions are perhaps unknowable, better left for the wisdom of those species closer to the heart of magic than us humans. Magic does not require my interrogation to exist, merely my acceptance and what small understanding my years have allowed me.” He gave her a small smile that she imagined he thought seemed wise and learned, gathered up his things, and left her standing alone in the empty classroom, seeming completely satisfied with himself and his answer.

“He basically just said I only have such questions because I’m not old enough or wise enough to know when to quietly accept what is served me and be grateful for it,” she muttered.

As she left the room, Damien Westbay fell into step beside her. Apparently he had been waiting outside the classroom for her to exit. “Pecanty is incurious,” the boy said without preamble, letting the statement sound like a devastating judgment. “Professor Lacer says failing to hold an opinion on a matter says one of two things. Either, ‘I do not wish to invest the resources to understand the matter,’ or, ‘I understand the matter and the evidence is weighted toward only one answer, and that answer is neutrality, at least until more evidence is presented.’” The boy spoke in the articulate, clipped tones of Thaddeus Lacer as he quoted.

“He says most people don’t understand that, however, and what they really mean is, ‘I am above all this,’ ‘I am wise,’ or ‘I am lazy.’ And they are likely deceiving themselves about which of the three it is.” He turned his head toward Sebastien, gauging her response to this.

“Professor Lacer is not incurious,” Sebastien said, forming the certainty even as she said the words. Westbay had pronounced the word as if it were a slur, and she found herself agreeing with him. ‘How dull, to never wonder. How unambitious. One does not become great by only accepting what is given to them and never reaching for more.’

Westbay gave her a small smirk. “He is not. And neither am I. I hope you didn’t think you were the only one given extra exercises.” Before she could respond, he sped up and turned the corner into a classroom, his expression saying better than any words that she was dismissed from his attention.

‘Observe, a wild example of the contraceptive personality, in its natural habitat.’ She resisted the urge to glare. Glaring would mean that he had affected her, something she refused to allow to be true.

After a quick lunch and another visit to the library, she checked her map, confirming that she was meant to leave the building altogether for Defensive Magic. She made her way to the north side of the University grounds, walking fast so the fifteen minutes between classes would be enough to arrive on time.

Green grass and trees gave way to bare, white ground by the time she arrived. The Flats, contrary to their name, were not flat at all. In fact, some of the white stone buttes seemed to have been deliberately molded with large platforms, squat walls, and even a few hoops. She did a double-take as she passed what seemed to be a pit of spikes, a faint sense of alarm rising in her. There was a building in the distance, but their professor met them out on the grounds.

She recognized this professor from the entrance examination. He was the one with the muscles and the armor, who had asked her about fighting the Blood Emperor.

He had them line up, then paced before them while speaking in a loud voice that carried far and bounced off the surrounding stone. “My name is Elwood Fekten. I served in the army during the border skirmishes, and the Haze War before that. I have no need for titles. You will call me Fekten. The man who taught this subject before me did so in a classroom, with a textbook. He was very knowledgeable, and his students became knowledgeable. They understood that a banshee’s wail is deadly from five meters, and will burst your eardrums and knock you unconscious from ten. They had learned that the best way to avoid this is to cast a vibration-cancelling spell and send up distress sparks, since any call for help would not make it out of the bounds of the vibration-canceller. Can anyone tell me why following these instructions would lead to your death?”

Fekten stopped pacing, spinning to face to the woman closest to him. “You. Speak.”

The woman’s eyes were wide. “Umm…because as long as you’re holding the vibration-cancelling spell, you cannot cast anything else? Well, unless you have an artifact.”

He shook his head and continued walking. “While that is technically correct, it misses the point.” He stopped in front of Sebastien. “What about you? Tell me why the accepted response will get you killed.”

Sebastien’s eyelids flared slightly wider before she got her face under control, hiding the burst of apprehension being singled out had caused her. “If you knew ahead of time that you were dealing with a banshee, you would go into the altercation with a vibration-cancelling spell already cast, preferably in artifact form so you’d be free to cast other magic personally. However, banshees rarely make straightforward attacks. What if you don’t know you are about to be targeted by one? Rather than scream, they are more likely to sing. Their song has a quality that encourages loss of focus, so by the time you realize something is wrong, they’re probably already close enough to slit your throat. Also, your banshee can scream on half a second’s notice, but most sorcerers cannot cast a spell that quickly. If you do manage to cast the vibration-canceller after she starts singing—say if you had an artifact able to cast it, perhaps—you still have to deal with the actual banshee—who is not in fact completely helpless—while you are inside a field that is either dampening vibration so well that your own movement is hindered, or which is allowing through some vibration, which means maybe the banshee can still affect you with her voice while she tries to stab you with a kitchen knife.” Her grandfather had told her just such a story when she was young.

Fekten didn’t immediately shake his head and walk away. “So what would you do, if you suspected you were being stalked by a banshee?”

“Ideally, if you were traveling through lands where such a thing seemed likely, or a town where people kept going missing, you would have prepared in advance for various types of danger, including a banshee. Wards, an artifact or two, that sort of thing.”

Fekten nodded slowly, then looked around at the other students to ensure they were paying attention. “And are you prepared thus, Siverling?”

“No,” she admitted, thinking even as she said it that, ‘Perhaps I should be so equipped.’ Aloud, she said, “So, when I suspected I was being stalked by a banshee, if possible I would cast a deafening hex on myself, then try to slip from her sight without noticeably panicking, and from there either run away altogether or wait in ambush to attack her from a distance.”

Fekten snorted and walked on. “Better. Still not perfect. Preparing you to think of the correct response as well as giving you the ability to carry it out is the purpose of this class. I am here to teach you how to avoid being killed by malicious parties. I cannot stop you from killing yourselves through stupidity or negligence, though some of you will undoubtedly meet your ends that way. This class is not about safe casting practices, it is about defeating or, more realistically for you lot, escaping an enemy. If you were hoping to get to attack something in this class, to let out some pent up aggression with destructive spells, you will be disappointed for quite a while. I do not have enough time to teach you both what you need to know to defend yourself and how to act on that information, so we will be doing our best to learn both at once, and it will be unpleasant.”

He stopped pacing and turned to the Flats. “A strong body is a strong mind. At your level of skill, if you cannot escape properly, you will just die, since I doubt that you can kill anything larger than a pixie. No, we will start with running, and then move to strength training. I will explain the dangers of the world as we do so, and you will pay attention and remember what I say, or there will be even more training.”

“Training” sounded more like he meant “torture,” and though there was some nervous shuffling and a few mutters of discontent, as soon as he turned around and glared at them, everyone shut their mouths.

“Your training clothes are in the sim room. Follow me, and do not dawdle. We have little enough time as it is.” He led them to the distant building at a quick jog, assigned them loose-fitting clothes, and shooed them into the changing rooms.

The next forty-five minutes were some of the most grueling of Sebastien’s life, as Fekten led them through exercises while lecturing on the dangers of pixies and how best to deal with them, without ever seeming to grow tired or out of breath.

Sebastien hated physical exertion, and despite a certain stamina gained from being forced to carry all her worldly belongings and walk for miles when they couldn’t find a wagon to ride in the back of, she wasn’t very good at it, either. Running, tossing, and pulling herself about required a very different kind of fitness. Luckily, she was not prone to holding excess weight, but she had never been one for physical labor, either, and her male form didn’t seem an improvement in that aspect. However, she consoled herself that if she ever had to sprint away from the coppers again, this would be good training.

A few minutes into the training, she gave up simply powering through on her own and surreptitiously cast an esoteric spell on herself. It muffled her pain slightly and allowed her thoughts to detach from it rather than focus constantly on the burning discomfort. It helped a little. Of course, it was difficult to keep the spell active while still paying attention to Fekten’s lecture and completing the exercises, but the effort was worth it, in her opinion.

The last thirty minutes of class were spent stretching and answering questions about the lecture Fekten had given.

Finally, he let them leave, with an admonition to arrive already dressed for class the day after next if they did not want to perform unspecified punishments.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter, on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-23-a-busy-schedule/
Table of contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 23 - A Busy Schedule

A note from AzaleaEllis

If you guys missed the extra chapter posted last week on Sunday, go back and read it before this one!

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 3, Tuesday 6:00 a.m.

The pain-muffling spell didn’t stop Sebastien from having sore muscles, and it wasn’t feasible to keep it running all day long, not when she needed to concentrate on her classes and practice other casting exercises. Her body was stiff when she woke on Tuesday, and every movement made her want to whimper aloud. She stilled, cast the pain-muffling spell, and kept it going through a hot shower and rubbing a whole jar of bruise balm into her muscles. The bruise balm would only help a little for this type of pseudo-injury. It wasn’t created for sore and overworked muscles, but it was better than nothing.

Besides, the deep well of exuberance she felt every time she looked around and realized where she was, the knowledge she now had access to, just waiting for her to find the time to devour it all, was not about to be dried up from a little physical fatigue. ‘This will strengthen the force and soundness of my Will,’ she assured herself. ‘I can and will torture myself for that.’

She spent the rest of the first week getting acclimated to life at the University. Every moment was filled, and the days passed quickly.

The supervised practice rooms were busy with other students in the evenings, but she found a place and spent a few hours there when she wasn’t in the library. She didn’t particularly like it. There were too many other people—talking and casting magic and generally being a distraction. ‘If only I could erase them all and learn in private, the University would be perfect.’

She ran through every variation of the spark-shooting spell that Professor Burberry had given, using both the heat of the Sacrifice Circle as well as the transmogrification components. Then, mindful of the need to push her limits, she tried to do it all with some additional variations. She used a simpler spell array as a little practice toward being a free-caster, which was the hardest, and led to exhaustion that day.

When she came back the next, she got creative with the color and brightness of the sparks, how far and quickly they shot, and the shape of the spray. When she started pushing the thaums higher to stretch her capacity, the flaring jet of sparks splashing against inside of the invisible warded bubble she was in drew attention.

She glared at the students who’d grown distracted from their own practice to look at her, and tried to tone down the light of the sparks while increasing the heat so she didn’t draw so much attention. ‘Well-deserved attention, to be sure, but Sebastien is going to disappear someday anyway, so it doesn’t matter if I build his reputation as the next future Archmage of Lenore.’ Sometimes that was hard to remember.

By the end of the first week, she had firm control of the iron ball exercise, using as many different methods to create its movement as she could think of. Professor Lacer had given her five extra exercises, not including the one everyone else was also doing. She hoped to get through the other four as quickly as possible, and poured hours of her spare time into the second exercise, which was closest to the one they were doing in class. It was a sympathetic movement spell, using a similar pair of iron balls.

However, this exercise wasn’t like a standard sympathetic movement spell. Normally, you linked two objects, and then when you lifted one, it would take a little over twice as much energy as normal, but the second object would rise with the first. His version of the spell required the linked ball to move when its partner did, but in a skewed direction or vector. With the axis of movement reversed, tilted, or even curved.

She researched several different spell arrays and glyphs she might use to create these effects, similar to what Lacer had instructed for the first exercise. It helped, but the mental component was still entirely different from any other sympathetic spell she’d ever cast, and it took some time and practice to really clarify her Will.

In effect, she was linking only the kinetic energy, while the details of how that kinetic energy was expressed were entirely arbitrary. The eventual point of the multiple sub-exercises was probably to let her move one linked ball freely, while still moving the other back and forth on a simple line. By changing the third glyph of the spell array, she could move one ball at a specific vector that was different from its counterpart, but she wasn’t to the point of free reign over the movement, yet.

Still, it was more interesting than spinning a ball in a circle over and over again. She began to experiment with that exercise, too, trying to push herself to stop and start rapidly, change directions, and pull the ball into the center and out to the edge of the glass.

Casting for hours every day was exhausting, especially when added on to the rigors of the classes and the theoretical studying they required. But she wouldn’t want to waste even a moment of the five months she’d paid so exorbitantly for. ‘I have to make it worth it.’

Sebastien spent the next couple weeks in a blur of classes and studying. As the other students made friends and formed solid groups, she found herself isolated, except for Ana and the occasional irritation from Westbay. This was not unintentional. A few others made overtures of friendliness, which she turned down as politely as she could. She hoped, as Sebastien, to make as small an impression on the world as possible—despite her natural inclination to stand out—but even if that hadn’t been the case, she had almost no time for socialization.

She made her way through the first couple books assigned for each class, which was enough to give her some confidence in answering the professors’ questions. She was still barely dragging herself through Fekten’s Defensive Magic class, but at least the whole-body screaming pain from overworking her muscles had somewhat subsided.

Her other classes were more enjoyable.

Professor Gnorrish, who taught Natural Science, encouraged them to study the topics they were reviewing in class more deeply. He held a test at the end of the week and gave out fractions of contribution points to those who could answer bonus questions at the end. They were covering the basics at rapid speed, but it was nothing more than a review for most students. They’d been able to pass the entrance exam, after all. But some of them had been closer to failing than others, and not everyone took natural science and the things transmutation could do seriously.

Professor Ilma continued to be fascinating, but also sometimes confusing. She didn’t particularly care that they remember dates, lineages, and ranks unless those details were critical to understanding why something important had happened. Memorization was second to comprehension.

She presented opposing arguments for the catalysts behind certain events, and sometimes even more than one version of the events themselves. She only sometimes accompanied those with an explanation of which was more likely to be true. She assigned books where historians argued with each other and made the students try to provide winning arguments for each side. Sometimes, when asked, she would give her opinions on the truth, which was often nuanced and unpleasant, but sometimes she would just say, “I don’t know.”

Some of her classmates disliked this method of teaching.

Sebastien thought it was wonderful. Ilma didn’t give out contribution points for answering bonus questions at the end of her tests, but occasionally she would give one to a student who asked an astute question, and even to students who argued with her. When the latter happened, she would assign that student special reading and tell them to discuss the matter with her when they’d finished learning more about the topic.

In fact, Ilma assigned more reading than most of the class could keep up with.

Sebastien’s grasp on history was spotty at best, what with her lack of formal schooling. She tried to get through all the books Ilma kept suggesting, but even she couldn’t manage it without skimming a little.

Ilma didn’t care one way or another, didn’t ask if they’d finished before assigning the next bit of reading, but she graded harshly for anyone who showed ignorance of a topic they’d covered.

Sympathetic Science with Professor Pecanty turned out to be less awesome magic, and more media exploration and interpretation. He would perform simple transmogrification spells so they could see different components used to create various material and abstract effects. At first, this excited her, but she grew confused, and even a little frustrated, when he didn’t teach them how to cast any of the example spells.

Instead, he focused on familiarizing the students with poems, stories, alliterations, and rhyming words. Always with example components, but with few transmogrification practice spells assigned. Instead, they discussed theme, connected word choices to feelings, and theorized about different things a seemingly straightforward piece of text could mean. There was no talk of foreign components, or the way other species used familiar ones. When she asked, Pecanty told her that was material for a higher level of study, which she might get to eventually, but not in his class.

At the end of the second week, on Saturday, she went to the library to find recipes for some concoctions the Verdant Stag required that she didn’t know how to brew. Katerin had also given her a list of potions Dryden had requested for his new emergency response teams, so Sebastien had plenty of work available, if she could manage it.

She researched and copied down recipes and their various modifications into her grimoire until she heard the bell tolling the hour and realized half the day was gone. She slumped back in her seat and rubbed tired eyes. The mental fatigue was catching up with her. Not just from the last couple weeks at the University, but the month before that as well, with all the studying, worrying, and scrambling to complete the alarm ward project for Dryden. ‘I must pace myself. The brewing can wait till next week, I think. Perhaps half a day without work would not be amiss.’

She considered trying to take a nap, but that lead her to thinking about her dreamless sleep spell. Sleeping twice a day was the only way she was able to keep up with the demands on her mind and body, but she was used to just four or five hours of sleep per night, and it felt like her days had suddenly shortened at the same time her workload had increased.

Instead, she perused the shelves for sleeping spells that might be more effective than what she had. She found nothing encouraging. Over the last few years she’d already tried most of the things available on this first floor of the library, and had eventually to come up with her own amalgamation of concepts to create her current dreamless sleep spell.

She already knew it would help if she had thousands of thaums to put into the spell, or could somehow continue to cast the spell while sleeping. If she were more knowledgeable in artificery, perhaps she could find a way to further improve on the latest iteration, which did seem to be helping, but she wasn’t taking that class. She wasn’t even sure that her problems could be solved by putting the spell into an artifact, because of the basic restrictions of the craft.

She briefly considered trying to convert the spell into a potion. Alchemy was a ritual. With alchemy, you could store up power over the long brewing period, packing much more potency into the final effect than what you would be able to otherwise. Then, the magic packed into a concoction could be release slowly, over a longer period than the casting, or even all at once, for a powerful burst. You could portion off doses of a single brew to give to multiple users.

Artificery was active casting with a special type of spell array. With artificery, you cast a spell, and that same spell was released when the proper conditions were met. The materials needed to create an artifact were much more expensive, but could store the magical energy for a lot longer without depletion. You could release the magic a little slower, which was the principle that light crystals and her current version of the dreamless sleep spell were based on, but that was still a type of containment and restriction, which was the principle that allowed basic artifacts to hold a spell for later use. You couldn’t release the spell faster or stronger than when you’d cast it into the artifact. Perhaps much higher levels of the craft allowed more control and variation, but really her problem was a lack of power.

If she wanted to make the spell more powerful over a longer period, the artifact used to cast it on her while she slept would need to be charged for hours every day, and it would be even worse with a potion. The time required defeated the point.

If there was any way around this, the knowledge of the craft was far beyond her, at Master or even Grandmaster level. She was just too weak compared to the strength of her nightmares.

As Sebastien was standing with the intention to leave, she paused. ‘With the right resources and enough Will, magic can solve all problems. What if there was some way to increase my stamina, or to enhance the regenerative effects of sleep? That would solve the problem even better.’ She used one of the silver-etched crystal balls in the atrium to divine a list of books that matched keywords like “sleep,” “stamina,” and “enhanced regeneration.” The ball gave her an encouragingly long list of codes, strings of letters and numbers that would lead her to the right section, stack, and order of the books she was looking for. “Everyday” magic like this still brought a smile to her face, and she doubted that would ever completely go away.

It took her a couple hours to get through the first half of the list, and though most of the books had been only peripherally related to the topic, she found a couple semi-promising ones and checked them out for later perusal.

More tired than ever by that point, Sebastien packed her things and returned the alchemy books to the shelves, then strolled out into the faintly foggy afternoon. ‘I can do it all,’ she assured herself. ‘Maybe not right away, I do need rest, but if there’s not enough time or energy, maybe that just means I haven’t found the best way to approach the problem yet. There has to be a way for me to do it all.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

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Next chapter of PGTS on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-24-the-menagerie/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 24 - The Menagerie

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 14, Saturday 4:00 p.m.

The smell of the sea was strong, even so far above Gilbratha proper. Sebastien meandered through the scattered trees, taking the time to let both her eyes and her brain wander. ‘Where shall I do the brewing? I could try to find an unused laboratory or classroom here, but that feels risky. If I were caught, I would likely not be punished, but it would be suspicious. If they caught me trying to remove large quantities of potions or salves from University grounds…’

She shuddered. ‘It would make the most sense to brew in one of the Verdant Stag’s rooms, since I wouldn’t need to worry about transporting the finished alchemical concoctions. It would be best not to travel there as Sebastien, however, and I’ve already resolved to switch back and forth as little as possible until I know more about how the artifact works. I could anonymously rent a room at some random inn, but students below Apprentice level cannot legally practice magic outside the University or without the supervision of a Master. If I were caught, it would be disastrous. I might be able to brew at Dryden Manor. I lived with him for weeks already, so it’s not like intertwining our identities would create any new danger, and as long as no one knows what exactly I’m doing there, it should be safe. I assume his servants can be trusted, but perhaps I should discuss it with him.’

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. ‘To sum up, I have no idea how to do this.’

She was mentally compiling a list of the ingredients she would need when the winding cobblestone path through the grounds brought her to a fence made of wrought iron bars. Its gate was bordered by two stone columns, which were buzzing ever-so-faintly in a way that signified powerful magic.

Curious, she stepped up to study the wards carved into the stone, only barely able to understand them after a few minutes of concentration. ‘This is the Menagerie,’ she realized. ‘The wards aren’t meant to keep anything out, but to keep the things on the other side in.’ With a couple seconds of hesitation, she opened the gate and stepped through, feeling the student token against her chest shudder subtly for a moment as she did so. Likely, she wouldn’t be able to pass those stone columns without it.

The gardens within were barely controlled chaos, seemingly on the edge of overgrowing into wildness, and yet giving the sense that they were meant to be so. Narrow cobblestone paths cut through it all, while a low iron fence kept the plants from spilling out over the footpaths.

She grinned. ‘It’s like the garden of wonders out of a child’s tale.’

A group of purple-streaked flowers with long, tapered petals opened and turned to follow her as she passed, releasing a spray of sweet-smelling pollen into the air. Sebastien recognized them as deadly elcan irises, flesh-eating plants that lured their prey with their beauty and the soporific properties of their pollen. ‘Tanya meant it when she said this place was dangerous.’ Still, Sebastien couldn’t quite bring herself to be afraid or turn back. It was dangerous, but it was also magic.

One young sapling in the distance uprooted itself and hurried away when she came into view, hiding itself among the other plants.

A three-headed snake crossed the path ahead of her, stopping briefly to give her a dismissive glance, and a few plots over, a trio of tiny birds darted out of a tree, blinking in and out of visibility with every flap of their wings.

A small pond hosted minnow-sized fish that darted about, glinting as if they were made of precious metals polished to a high shine.

Sebastien wasn’t alone in the Menagerie. A couple people tended the grounds, while others moved carefully through the dense flora, harvesting the plants. Those who were harvesting all had baskets made of stiff leather, which they placed their bounty into, and they would occasionally mist the plants within with water.

She stopped by a girl who was inside one of the garden plots, plucking dark green insects off a plant and placing them inside a small bottle. “Excuse me, Miss,” Sebastien said.

The girl startled, then flushed when she turned and saw Sebastien.

Sebastien smiled. “I’m new to the University. Can you tell me, do they allow students to harvest or take things from the Menagerie? I saw some snowdrops a few plots back but wasn’t sure if it would be alright to take a couple.”

The girl was looking her up and down, her cheeks bright pink, and seemed to take a moment to realize Sebastien had asked her a question. “Oh! Er, as long as you have a basket, you can harvest things and take them out. Of course, we aren’t allowed to over-harvest, but they don’t really regulate the alchemy students beyond that.”

“Oh.” Sebastien looked to the ground and put her hands in her pockets, wearing what she hoped was a convincingly innocent expression. “I have an interest in alchemy, but I didn’t have enough space to take that class this term. Is that the only way to get a basket?”

The girl shrugged apologetically. “I’ve seen students from the Zoology, Horticulture, and Herbology classes here, too. Perhaps you could speak to one of the professors and they would let you have one, if you explained your situation?”

Sebastien nodded noncommittally and murmured, “Perhaps,” before thanking the girl and continuing on.

‘This place is a treasure trove of ingredients and components, and I’m sure the University administrators are aware of that and have prepared against theft.’It seemed safer to get any items she wouldn’t want them to know about from the market in town, or have someone from the Verdant Stag purchase them for her. ‘Still, if I have a chance to safely and anonymously obtain a basket, or find another way to bypass those wards, the things within the Menagerie might give me an actual chance to repay Katerin. Magical components are expensive.’ She didn’t consider it theft. She’d paid the University hundreds of gold for only a few months within its walls, and would continue to do so. Repurposing a few of their magical components was her right as a student. It was only good sense to take full advantage of any and all opportunities presented to her.

By the time the sun began to set, she had strolled through the entire lower-security part of the Menagerie. The inner gate, beyond which lay the significant majority of the gigantic artificial habitat, did not open for her. She took that as a sign that it would be unsafe to enter and didn’t continue trying, though she wondered what could be in the thick forest beyond.

She turned back the way she’d come, meandering slowly toward the entrance. Along the way, she passed a few people strolling idly like her. She even saw Professor Munchworth in the distance, leaning over a small bridge above a stream and looking into the water. She wished for a moment that she could cast some spell that would send him tumbling in while she kept an innocent distance, but even the ire he brought up in her stomach couldn’t spoil her good mood.

She felt relaxed, and realized she even wore a rare smile of contentedness, despite her inability to possess any of the treasure all around her. ‘Should I try to take something from the Menagerie with me, just to see what would happen? I could easily feign ignorance of the rules if an authority figure came to investigate.’ Ultimately, she decided against it. She was tired.

Instead of going directly to the cafeteria once she exited the Menagerie, she once again examined the spellwork on the entrance gate’s stone columns and along the outer wrought iron fence. She had made little progress deciphering the wards when a familiar voice called out her name.

She rose to see Anastasia Gervin waving at her, the girl’s other arm tucked through the elbow of Damien Westbay as they strolled along the cobblestone path to the Menagerie.

Ignoring Westbay’s scowl, Ana dragged him toward Sebastien.

“Hello, Sebastien! What are you up to this evening?” Ana said, smiling with willful obliviousness to the tension between the two boys.

Sebastien nodded in return to her greeting. “I’ve just taken a stroll through the Menagerie. It’s quite remarkable.”

Westbay’s eyes narrowed, emphasizing the bags under his eyes which gave him a constant look of fatigue, though Sebastien had seen him sleeping soundly several times when she herself was up early or in the middle of the night, so she didn’t know what he had to be tired about. “You’re outside the Menagerie, and were crouched over the fence line.”

Sebastien felt a sudden spike of alarm, but kept that from her face, pausing to think of a response in a way that she hoped seemed natural. “Well, yes. I have an interest in wards. In all magic, really, but lately I’ve been doing some research to expand my understanding of that branch of magic. These are quite complex, though. I have to admit I don’t really understand them.” She put on a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of her head.

“You’re sure you weren’t examining the wards to figure out how to bypass them?” Westbay said, his lip curling up on one side in a sneer. “I’ve heard more than a few stories about the students from upper levels harvesting moonbeams and fairy wings from the Menagerie at night for the…mind-altering effects.”

Ana’s eyes grew wide, and she turned to Westbay in shock at his blatant rudeness.

Sebastien’s back straightened further, her chin lifting. ‘The best defense in a situation like this is a powerful offense.’ She scowled, but before she could shoot out a scathing counter-blow, someone spoke behind her.

“That really is the height of stupidity.”

The speaker was their student liaison, Tanya Canelo, who was walking out of the Menagerie gate. She stopped at Sebastien’s side, an eyebrow raised as she looked between the two boys. “Those students may think they’re getting away with something, but I can assure you the University is fully aware that they have removed certain items, and why they did so. Coming here at night does not stop the wards from alerting, whether or not the students have a harvest basket.”

Sebastien filed that information away in her mind, but said, “That information is interesting, but irrelevant to me, since I have no intention of stealing anything from the Menagerie. Though you may not be able to imagine doing any study outside of class,” she said to Westbay, “I am not incurious.” As Westbay had a few days prior, she said the word like the slur it was.

The boy’s cheeks flushed. “Perhaps some of us simply prefer to use our free time to ensure our success rather than run off on irrational tangents. I’m surprised you have any time at all to get away from study. Or have you given up on Professor Lacer’s training already?”

At that point, Ana elbowed Westbay in the side, not even attempting to hide the sharp jab into his ribs.

Tanya seemed to find all of this supremely amusing and made no effort to hide her interest in the byplay.

When she looked back at Sebastien, Ana’s smile was overly bright and forced. “So, what do you two think of that sorceress thief who hit the University a couple months ago? Damien was just regaling me with speculation about the case. The Westbay family is in charge of the coppers, you know.”

Sebastien felt a faint sense of unreality. ‘This must be a dream. A nightmare.’

Tanya shrugged, putting her hands in her pockets and rocking back on her heels lazily. “It would be wonderful if they had any real information, but if they did, they would have caught her already, I think.” She looked to Westbay, raising her eyebrow again as if daring him to refute her claim.

The boy seemed less inclined to rudeness with the upper level student than he was with Sebastien. “They know she’s a sorcerer, and she has had some contact with her accomplice in prison, using a blood magic spell. She’s bold. My brother says she’ll act again, and eventually make a mistake. When she does, we will catch her.”

Sebastien hoped she wasn’t pale, and very carefully maintained an expression of irritation to mask her dread. “That’s all?” When Westbay didn’t immediately pipe up with further evidence against her, she snorted. “Well then. I think I’ll be off to dinner. You might want to cut your little stroll short, Westbay. Not all of us are able to handle a full class load along with whatever else comes our way without trouble.” She didn’t want to push too far. She had apparently made an enemy of someone powerful, but restraint could keep his animosity from getting even worse. Still, she seemed unable to maintain a firm lock on her tongue, and as always, it tried to get her into trouble even if she understood the foolishness of her actions.

With a nod to both other females, she strolled off down the path. ‘I hope Westbay isn’t the type to fight dirty. Just in case, I should make sure the wards around my bed and belongings are as strong as possible. As for the rest, I need to talk to Dryden.’ The fact that the coppers knew she had contacted her father wasn’t a good sign, but hopefully it wasn’t so bad as to lead them to Sebastien.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note: Reviews and comments much appreciated! What do you guys think about Damien? Like him, hate him, think she should use him for his connections?

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-25-alchemy/

Table of contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 25 - Alchemy

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 14, Saturday 5:30 p.m.

Sebastien considered sending a message to Dryden through the University Administration center, whose mail department was behind the occasional paper bird she saw flying through the air, but decided against it, since she didn’t know what information Administration tracked when sending them. Or even if the spell worked at distances farther than the University grounds. She resolved to learn how to cast it, or another simple communication spell, herself.

Instead, she simply arrived at his house that evening, her nose and cheeks red from the cold.

Dryden offered her a cup of hot, spiced cocoa, which she would normally have savored and allowed to warm her, but she took just a sip, set it down on the edge of his desk, and promptly forgot about is as she explained why she’d come.

Dryden was much less concerned about the coppers’ knowledge of the raven messenger than she was. He was sleep-deprived, the symptoms of which she was quite familiar with. He rubbed bloodshot eyes. “So they know you spoke with him. He knew nothing relevant, so they couldn’t have learned much from him. And it’s not as if finding the dead raven can lead them back to you. You are a young man from a good background attending the very prestigious Thaumaturgic University of Lenore. Siobhan is a poor young woman who is in hiding or has left the city altogether after arguing with her father. No matter what other clues they gather—and trust me, what they have is not enough to be useful—there is a disconnect between those ideas. There is no precedence for such a thing. Even if they had real evidence, it’s unlikely they could understand the true implications of what they were seeing.”

She grimaced, pacing back and forth in front of him. “I understand what you’re saying, but there could be factors at work that we don’t understand, or pivotal pieces of information we’re missing. Is there any way to get better insight into what their investigation has uncovered? I would feel better if we knew they were nowhere near to discovering the truth, as opposed to merely hoping and speculating that I am safe. That we are safe.”

He sighed, running a hand over his jaw. “You’re right. I don’t have any direct contacts in Harrow Hill, but I can inquire around. Give me a few days.”

She stopped pacing and nodded, letting her shoulders hang with released tension.

“While you are here, why not stay for dinner?” he asked.

Almost giddy with the relief that Dryden would be using his considerable resources to make sure she was safe, she laughed. “Yes, please! I cannot wait to taste something other than the University slop!”

Dryden yawned a lot and ate slowly, but seemed pleased to have her drop by. He enquired about her progress in her studies, asked intelligent questions when she explained what she was learning, and looked at her with an expression that was not quite satisfaction and not quite pride, but which left her feeling quite gratified with his company.

After dinner, he went back to his study, and she took the time to check on the ancient book she’d hidden inside the mattress in her room. It was still there, seemingly undisturbed.

She took it out and placed it on the floor, staring at the incomprehensible glyph stamped into its leather cover. She needed a better hiding place for it. ‘Maybe I could cut up some of the floor, hollow out a hole in the marble the exact size of the book, and then seal it back up again?’ She eyed the matte marble dubiously. Each square was fit snugly against the others, with no visible grout or binding medium. ‘My mending spell might be able to handle that, but how am I supposed to cut one of those blocks free? Could I use a sympathetic movement spell to lift one directly out of the floor?’

She leaned her ear to the floor and tapped on it, hoping for a hollow sound. There was none. ‘Not a facade, then. The marble must be at least two inches thick. Knowing the Gilbrathan tendency for excess, these floors are made of pure stone.’ She hurried back downstairs and looked at the ceiling from the ground floor. Sure enough, it was marble. ‘They could have put a facade on either side, but I’d bet they just made the whole structure from stone and used extreme precision and magic to keep everything together.’

Some quick calculations disabused her of any hope of using a sympathetic connection to lift one of the blocks. ‘I’m at somewhere over two hundred thaums, but under two hundred and fifty. That’s enough to lift about fifty pounds, or twenty-three kilograms, one meter per second. But those blocks have to be many times that. I might be able to manage if I could lift very slowly, spreading that energy expenditure out over a longer time period, but there’s still the structural integrity of the floor to consider. Plus, if they bound the blocks together with anything, I’m back to needing some sort of cutting spell.’

She set the idea aside as impractical and pulled out her grimoire.

She caressed the scuffed leather cover lovingly, then flicked through the pages filled with notes, questions, and sketches till she found the page where she’d copied decryption, nullifying, and revealing spells from the reference texts she’d found in the University library. Students weren’t allowed to take books off University grounds, so she’d painstakingly copied the relevant sections into her own grimoire.

‘These spells may be simple and meant for children, but that doesn’t mean they won’t work. We’ve made significant advancements since the time the amulet and the book were created. Maybe one of these will work based on a principle the creator didn’t think to ward against.’

It took her over two hours to work through every spell she’d copied, drawing the arrays onto the floor in chalk, setting out the components closest to the suggested ones from the books, and then erasing the Word and trying again with the next one.

She kept hoping that the next one would work.

None did. That might have been because of the exceptional creativity of the creator, or her own relative weakness.

In the end, she was exhausted. She dragged herself back to the University, numb frustration hounding every step.

Back at the dorms, she skipped Professor Lacer’s exercises for once and simply went to sleep. She felt better in the morning, but she was becoming less enchanted with only having access to the first level of the library. Maybe what she needed was on one of the upper floors, or even the archives in the lower levels.

Over the next week, she tried not to let her worry over the investigation affect her studies. If anything, her fear of possible expulsion and arrest pushed her harder. It was an impulse to absorb all the magical knowledge she could in case this opportunity was ripped away.

Professor Lacer apparently got angry at some mishandling of magic by one of the second term students and had him expelled from the University in a scene that Sebastien hadn’t personally witnessed, but which grew more dramatic with every retelling she heard. She even heard a version that claimed Lacer turned the student into a sheep out of anger and sent the bleating young man back to his family with a note that said, “Your son was raised like an animal, so I have unified his outer appearance to match the inner.”

It wasn’t that she believed the rumors—well, not the more theatrical versions—but they did little to reassure her of the stability of her status as a student.

On Saturday, she left the University early in the morning and spent some time browsing Waterside Market for ingredients. As someone without even an Apprentice license, technically she shouldn’t have been allowed to buy magical items, even if she was a University student, because they provided their students with supplies. However, an attitude of arrogance, her expensive clothing, and a quick flash of the sky kraken burnt into the back of her student token allowed her to get what she needed, and no one insisted on needing to see her certification before selling to her. It probably helped that she didn’t require any restricted or particularly powerful components.

Waterside Market itself imbued her with a kind of giddiness, despite the pain she felt in her money purse when looking at the standard prices. They had spell components from all over the world, some of which she had never heard of and others which she couldn’t afford.

The people were just as varied and interesting.

She saw a sorcerer walking around with a big tome of magic, which would allow him to cast a variety of spells with less than half the normal amount of preparation. The price of such a tome was ridiculously exorbitant, however.

A woman wearing robes of silk woven with active, slightly glowing spells walked past with a pair of guards, her face so beautiful Sebastien was sure she must use glamours.

There were people of other species too. Not so many of them as to avoid the looks of curiosity, but not enough to cause a sensation with their unusual appearance.

A hag wearing a big hat to protect her cataract-covered eyes from the weak sun was selling poppet luck charms that Sebastien thought might have been made of human hair.

A pixie fluttered within a huge birdcage, throwing curses and lewd gestures at the crowd, the dandruff from its constantly peeling wings falling to the bottom of the cage. Small containers of pixie dust were advertised for sale on the table beside it.

A slew of witches were recognizable because of their contracted creatures. Many were accompanied by elementals from one of the other planes, but a couple by simple magical creatures, like a cockatrice or a drake.

Sebastien caught a glimpse of a coy kitsune slipping through the crowd with her fluffy tails wrapped around her body.

A prognos, with one large eye in the center of his forehead, read fortunes at a gaudy stall. Sebastien avoided the prognos’s gaze, just in case he could see through her transformation.

A crowd consisting mostly of children and their parents surrounded an illusionist who was putting on a shadow-play, colored lights and shadows taking the form of simplified scenery and people. A young pickpocket grazed through the edge of the crowd, nimble fingers darting out whenever an opportunity presented itself.

Sebastien didn’t call out the thief, simply made sure her own purse was secure and moved on.

She already had her own small cauldron, which was all she could handle at her Will’s capacity, but along with the ingredients, she bought a whole box of small jars and vials to hold single doses of the alchemical concoctions she was about to make.

She arrived at Dryden Manor well-prepared. When she had seen him the Saturday before, she had verified that brewing at his house would be safe, and he had promised to move the finished products to the Verdant Stag for her.

She walked in through the unobtrusive door to the side of the kitchen, grinning at the servants when they exclaimed in surprise. With a wink at Sharon, who tittered like a girl ten years younger, Sebastien struggled up the stairs and gave a perfunctory knock on the doorjamb of Dryden’s study with her foot—since both her arms were full—then poked her head into the room. Dryden’s head jerked up from whatever he was working on and he blinked in surprise, seeming to come out of a fugue of intense concentration. His expression and posture both relaxed when he recognized her, and he smiled.

“I’m here to brew. Where do you want me?” she said with a grin, panting under the weight of her supplies.

“Come in,” he said, rising from his desk. “You can set your supplies there,” he said, gesturing to the bare stone table set against the inner wall of his study, near the fireplace.

“You rearranged things,” she said, looking around.

“Yes. As I understand it, there should be a clear area around the brewing station in case of accidents or explosions. I didn’t want my belongings covered in acid.”

“Nothing I will brew today is in danger of exploding,” she said flatly, one eyebrow rising.

He snickered, but pointed to the table. “Slate, since it’s chemically resistant. The fireplace is connected to the one below, so the wards should vent any fumes from your brewing.” He pointed to a basin beside the table. “That basin is spelled to draw up fresh water from the well, and has a setting to banish its contents, so you can wash your tools.”

He lingered as Sebastien set down her supplies and unpacked everything. “What are you making today?” he asked, leaning against the fireplace.

She rubbed her tired arms and put her small cauldron on the table. “It’s early yet, so I should have enough time to make a few batches. I think it will be fever-reducing potion, a minor healing salve for cuts and scrapes, and maybe a small amount of the philtre of darkness you requested, if I have the time.”

“None of the other battle potions or philtres?” He sounded disappointed.

“I’ll attempt one or two, if I can. I’ve never brewed most of the ones on your list before, and I have to be careful not to push myself too hard.” Her choice of what to brew this first day had been based on what would be most useful for the average citizen who went to the Verdant Stag. Once she felt she had produced a reasonable amount of basic healing concoctions, she had ideas about what would make her the most gold for the least effort. For instance, an elixir of euphoria was one of the more expensive items on the list Katerin had given her, and though it could be used in small doses to combat low spirits, it was more often sold recreationally. A potion of moonlight sizzle and the philtre of darkness were both something fun she wanted to try for herself, though Dryden’s emergency response teams could use them as well.

“You’re right, of course. I’m sure the University is pushing you hard, and your health is more important than a few potions. It’s only that I was somewhat excited to see them in action,” he said with a chagrined smile. “You have enough vials and jars to store it all?”

She nodded.

“You kept your receipts for the ingredients? You can give them to Katerin and she’ll reimburse you, or take the cost off your debt.”

“I have them with me. Will you give them to her, when you see her?” she asked, pulling the small stack of receipt papers from one of her larger pockets, which also held the loose change from her purchases.

Dryden’s fingers brushed against hers as he took the receipts, and a visible spark of static leapt between their skin, causing both of them to jump. She chuckled nervously, but he only rubbed his fingers together with an absent look on his face. “I have an update on the investigation,” he said with no preamble.

Her head snapped toward him.

He waved his hand. “It’s nothing to be excited about, one way or the other. It seems your father spoke to the guards about your visit, and the coppers have the raven in an evidence box, so they have Siobhan Naught firmly connected to the crime of blood magic. They are no closer to catching you, and it seems the investigation has stalled since then. They’re trying to figure out if you have a source of information within the University that tipped you off about what, where, and when to steal, hoping they can trace your ‘source’ back to you. If nothing happens to warm the investigation up, I expect it will be set aside to free up resources soon. In a few years, you will likely have no trouble returning to Siobhan’s form, though you wouldn’t be able to use your real name, of course.”

She wasn’t surprised that her father—Ennis, she reminded herself—hadn’t kept his silence about their visit, but she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit the small pang in her chest was from disappointment. “Any news on a trial or sentencing for him?”

Dryden shook his head. “Not yet. I suspect they’re waiting till they either catch you or give up hope of doing so.”

She began to arrange her supplies on the table. ‘I have no plans to be captured. So what will happen to him then?’

“Are you alright?” Dryden asked, startling her from her thoughts.

She looked up and gave him a small smile. “Yes. Don’t worry about me, I won’t jeopardize your safety—or my own—with more sentiment.”

“That wasn’t—” He sighed and shook his head, rubbing at the stubble on his jaw. “I didn’t mean to imply that.”

“Thank you for looking into the investigation, Mr. Dryden,” she said, then turned her attention back to her preparations.

After a pause, he returned to the work at his desk.

Sebastien filled the cauldron with the appropriate amount of water, poured some oil into the brazier beneath it, and set it alight to start the water warming. Like all other magic, alchemy required the three elements of Word, Will, and Sacrifice, and used a Circle to constrain the domain of effect.

The Circle ran around the center of the cauldron’s round belly, and the sphere of containment spread from there. The mouth of the cauldron was open to the air, as if the sphere had part of the top sliced off. Alchemists knew to take care not to let their hands dip into the sphere, even if it was invisible. Unlike modern sorcery, alchemical spells were cast as a ritual. The components—also ingredients, in this case—were both a portion of the Sacrifice and the Conduit through which the magic would flow. Alchemical concoctions usually took at least an hour to complete, sometimes much longer, and required concentration for the majority of the process.

She poured out a Circle of white salt on the table and prepared the ingredients for the fever reducer within its boundaries. Alchemy required a steady flow of energy rather than large bursts, except on rare occasions, but she still wouldn’t be able to safely make more than twenty doses at once.

Sebastien had plenty of experience brewing this potion, as it was universally useful, and though most of the heat and inflammation-reduction was focused on the head, it also doubled as a mild pain reliever. Someone was always willing to purchase one, and some variation of the ingredients was always relatively easy to purchase or gather.

Careful not to disturb the salt with her movements, she sliced willow, crushed spearmint, swirled a vial of lake fog nine times counterclockwise, and powdered a few hens’ teeth, to start. As she worked, she bent her Will in a steady stream upon the ingredients, directing their magical properties to specific purposes.

When she finished the initial ingredient preparation, she turned to the now-boiling cauldron and sprinkled the first of the ingredients in, moving her hand in a circle as she did. In addition to the ingredients themselves, the heat of the boiling water acted as Sacrifice, slowly dissolving the components within, even sometimes things like pebbles or glass, which otherwise wouldn’t have melted under such moderate heat.

The Word was held in the brewer’s mind as a specific intent or series of intents while they completed each step of creation, and was sometimes aided by a few rhymes or chants spoken over the boiling cauldron.

Similar to artificery, alchemy was so useful because, although slow, it allowed one to bind the effects of a spell into something that could be used later, and could be used by a relatively weak thaumaturge to create a spell they otherwise might not be able to cast on demand. Of course, some of the magical energy was lost along the way—about thirty percent, in most cases. A potion could also spoil, so some people felt alchemy was inferior to artificery, which could capture and release a larger portion of the imbued energy due to the spells being set into stone, metal, or some other high-efficiency material.

She liked alchemy in part because it was much more accessible to a commoner such as herself. Artificery required not only the components to charge the spell, but also expensive materials for the artifact itself, which many people couldn’t afford, and access to the complex mathematical and logical strings used to create the Word. Alchemy was more common, and despite the complicated rituals, it was still simpler than the elaborate, tiny spell arrays that an artificer had to carve into their items. Thus, alchemy was easier to learn outside of a structured environment like the University.

But mainly, it was the ability to cast alchemical spells as a ritual rather than an immediate spell that gave alchemy its advantage. Over the course of ninety minutes, Sebastien could pack more magic into a single-use potion than she could ever hope to cast instantaneously while imbuing an artifact.

She added the ingredients with her hands, as her grandfather had taught her, thinking of their purpose as she did so. She took deep breaths and hummed on the exhale, deep in her throat, as he had often done when brewing, though she had no proof that it actually helped. When she stirred the brew, she did so with wood taken from a living tree, feeling it heat up as magic flowed through it. She imagined the relief the potion would give the drinker, the banishment of pain, the feeling of an aching head cooling as its owner fell into sleep, while the body remained warm enough to fight off sickness. She could feel the mental fatigue as time went on, the potion greedily drinking up all the magic she could channel into it.

She brewed for a few hours, with breaks in between each session, and returned to the University after sharing another fine dinner with Dryden, where she stuffed herself to the point of bursting in an attempt to make up for the exhaustion of extended magical exertion.

She came again on Sunday, earlier this time without the need to visit the market, and returned to brewing. She pushed herself, wanting to get as much done as possible before returning to classes the next day. Plus, all magical exertion was useful to increase her Will capacity, the more difficult the better.

By sunset, vial racks filled with potions and cartons of salve jars were stacked beside the table.

She’d made two batches of the fever reducer and the minor healing salve, which went by the more common name of “skin-knitter,” as well as a single batch of the much more magic-intensive, but also better paying, revivifying potion. She’d also borrowed one of the big pots from the kitchen and used it in place of her cauldron to create a gigantic batch of the potion of moonlight sizzle, which she’d put in squat little jars that glowed ever-so-faintly blue.

When shaken, the potion roiled with contained bubbles and let off a soft but bright glow that mimicked the light of a full moon and was powerful enough to illuminate a small room on its own. It was best brewed under the actual light of a full moon, but she had substituted owl feathers and a couple handfuls of powdered moonstone, which seemed to work well enough. A jar of moonlight sizzle didn’t last as long as a spelled light crystal, only about five hundred hours, or three full weeks of light, and the output wasn’t steady, as you had to shake it every half hour or so to restart the bubbles, but it was cheaper than a light crystal, and significantly cheaper over time than an ordinary candle. Plus, she could use it to read under the covers in her dorm without worrying about setting the bed on fire with her little lantern flame.

For Dryden, she made a small batch of Speer’s philtre of stench, the fumes of which she had made sure to keep confined within the cauldron’s influence, and the philtre of darkness, which was magically intensive enough that she could only make a half-dozen per batch, like the revivifying potion.

She made sure everything was labeled properly with little slips of paper, but hesitated before signing them. It was standard for any magical creations to come with the mark of the creator, as not all thaumaturges were equal, and the consumer might prefer one alchemist, sorcerer, or warder over another. In the end, she simply initialed each of them “S.S.” and took one of each concoction for herself, with Dryden’s permission.

“No need to take it out of your commission. Think of it as a tip for your hard work,” he said, grinning at her.

Her fingers trembled faintly with exhaustion, and she had to force her eyes to focus properly. ‘I pushed myself too hard,’ she admitted, but, looking at the product of her labors, she felt no regret. ‘Still, that’s over twelve gold of pure profit, enough to cover almost nine days of accrued interest, and a handful of potions for my own use, too. If I do this every weekend till the end of term, I will at least have kept up with the interest on my debt. As my Will continues to strengthen, I’ll be able to make more expensive concoctions, and more doses per cauldron.’

In a day, she had earned as much as a poorly compensated worker might make in three weeks. ‘If they have enough demand to purchase everything I can make during the ten weeks of break time the University has every year, I may even be able to pay off a good portion of the principal as well.’ Despite her fatigue, she felt satisfied with her productivity. That is, until she considered that the loan she’d been given was only for one term at the University, and she didn’t have enough left to cover the second term of the year, so would undoubtedly have to take another loan from Katerin.

Dryden looked over the table full of her work with satisfaction, rocking back and forth on his heels. “This is wonderful, Sebastien. It will make a real difference in the lives of dozens of people.”

“Well, that’s nice too, but I’m mainly interested in the money,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t work this hard for altruistic reasons.”

He gave her a slightly lopsided smile. “Well, people are selfish. That’s human nature. In a perfect world, society would incentivize individual action that was also good for the whole.”

She hesitated, but said, “There’s no such thing as a perfect world.”

The rocking on his heels stopped. “I know that,” he said softly. He picked up a potion of moonlight sizzle and shook it, watching the cold light spill past his fingers. “But it’s not unreasonable to think it can get a little better, wouldn’t you agree?”

She didn’t answer, partly because she wasn’t sure if she did agree, and partly because she was skeptical that he really believed it, either. ‘He seems too intelligent to be so…naive.’

She half dozed her way through dinner with Dryden, who seemed equally fatigued, and made it back to the dorms shortly before lights-out with barely enough energy for her nighttime routine.

Her third week at the University passed without comment, though she noticed the other students’ interest in her didn’t seem to have diminished. In fact, she found people she didn’t even recognize from her dorm—complete strangers—staring at her when they thought she wasn’t looking. A pair of girls even went so far as to follow her between classes, quickly ducking into doorways or behind other students and giggling to each other when she looked at them.

Ana, who had been walking with her at the time, laughed at Sebastien’s expression of confusion. When Sebastien scowled at her, the other girl explained. “They think you’re handsome, Sebastien. Take it as a compliment. Not all females can be as self-composed and unaffected as I.”

Sebastien felt particularly stupid for not considering that as a possibility, though she didn’t think it explained the entirety of the interest her schoolmates seemed to hold for her. ‘Perhaps my attempts to seem unassuming and forgettable have instead created an aura of mystery.’ While that would have at one point amused and even gratified her, now it was a depressing thought. ‘I hope not. People want to solve mysteries.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note: Reviews and comments much appreciated! Any particular craft of magic that you guys would like to see further explored?

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-26-bargains-big-and-small/

Table of contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 26 - Bargains Big and Small

Oliver

Month 11, Day 24, Tuesday 8:30 p.m.

As Oliver stepped into the Verdant Stag, well after dark, his mask concealing his features, a man lunged out of the shadows beside the door and grabbed onto him.

Oliver reached for his battle wand immediately, sinking down into a fighting stance. He stopped himself just before shooting the man with a concussive blast, registering the man’s plain clothing, lack of weapon, and the desperate look on his bruised face. “Release me,” he said instead.

The nearby patrons of the inn had turned to look at them, alarmed. The tense silence was already spreading out through the rest of the large room.

The man released Oliver’s arm and stepped back, bowing deeply. He straightened and then bowed again. “Forgive me, Lord Stag. I meant no harm, only I need your help. I’m desperate. Please, sir. The Morrows, a couple o’ their boys took my daughter as we were coming home from the temple o’ the Radiant Maiden. It was outside o’ Stag territory, there weren’t any of the green flags to pull for help. I tried to stop ‘em, but there were too many. They hit me down, but I was still and quiet, and when they left, I got up and followed ‘em and saw where they took ‘er. She’s in a house off the docks, and I don’t know what they might be doin’ to ‘er, but she were screamin’ as they dragged ‘er away—” The man choked on his words and bowed a couple more times.

Oliver laid his hand on the man’s shoulder, keeping him from bowing any more. “Breathe. Speak slowly. How long ago was this?”

The man trembled as he looked up into the dark eye-holes of Oliver’s mask. “An hour at most. I came straight here once I seen where they took ‘er.”

Oliver nodded sharply. “Alright. Follow me.” He strode toward a hallway leading to the back, past the bar and the stage.

The man continued to stammer as he hurried to keep up. “My neighbor Stuart said he came to you when his wife were attacked, and you got ‘er all healed up and got the people who did it arrested, neat as you please. And he told me the price weren’t too high.” He reached into a pocket, pulling out a half-full coin purse. “I’ve got twelve gold, sixty-seven copper saved up. I was hopin’ to send my daughter to get the readin’ and writin’ certification in a few years, but—” He held the money out to Oliver. “If you can save ‘er, it’s yours. I don’t know if it’s enough, but I’m willin’ to owe you, and I promise I’m good for it. I’ll pay you back if it’s the last thing I do, I swear, if you can just save ‘er—”

Oliver spun, throwing open a door.

The one-handed man behind the desk looked up from the report he’d been writing with painstaking slowness, unperturbed. “Mr. Oliver,” he greeted.

Oliver dragged the man with the kidnapped daughter into the room with him. “Mr. Gerard, some Morrows have taken this man’s daughter. He can lead you to the place they’re holding her. It’s been an hour. Assemble a team and head out immediately.”

The man stood, fountain pen forgotten on the desk. He strode off through the door at the back of the room, shouting names and orders, and the men in the room beyond scurried to jump up and equip their supplies.

Oliver turned to the man beside him, who now had tears in his eyes.

He tried to shove the purse at Oliver again.

Oliver pushed it back to him, speaking perfunctorily, any compassion in his tone well hidden. “You can pay afterward. It’ll be fifty gold, due to the danger of the mission. The Verdant Stag will be loaning you the full amount. This includes the cost for any healing your daughter may need.”

The man tried to bow again, and Oliver stopped him by gripping his shoulder, forcing him to look into the eye-holes of his mask. “This loan will have interest,” he continued. “If you cannot afford the payments on your own, we will find a way for you to repay what you owe. Additionally, you will owe the Verdant Stag a favor,” he said forebodingly. “At some point, the Stags may have need of you. If—when—this happens, you will set aside your hesitation, eschew your own comfort, and disregard the risk to come to our aid. This is the price for our help today.”

The man didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Yes. I agree.”

“If your daughter cannot be saved…”

The man gritted his teeth, blinking rapidly.

“The culprits will be brought to justice. The debt will still be in effect. Do you still agree?”

Pale-faced, he nodded, swallowing hard.

“Good.” Oliver released his shoulder. “You may accompany the rescue team. You will stay back. Do not impede their work, or you might place your daughter in danger. Mr. Gerard is in charge. You will listen to him unconditionally.”

The man nodded rapidly. “Yes, yes.”

The rescue team, now fully kitted out, stomped back through the door.

“Perfect timing,” Oliver muttered. He nodded to them. “Go.”

The man hurried to keep up with Oliver’s team of enforcers as they ran down the hall and left through one of the Verdant Stag’s side entrances.

Oliver sighed, lifting his mask with one hand to rub his forehead with the other. He’d forgotten to tell the man that there was no need to wait for him, specifically. Any of the citizens within his territory could come to the Stag to ask for help at any time, reporting directly to the person currently in charge of the area they needed assistance in. He turned, going back through the entertainment hall—where once again people took their attention from the performance on stage and their alcohol to stare as he passed by—and up the stairs towards Katerin’s office.

He almost stumbled on Theo, who was crouched at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing as he looked down on the room below. Theo was watching the amateur play being performed on stage. A slate board and nub of chalk lay forgotten by his side, the simple math problems on them only half finished.

The boy pulled his head back through the railing. He grinned up at Oliver and jumped to his feet, unperturbed by the mask. “Mr. Oliver! Did that man need help? I saw you take him back toward the enforcers’ station. Did they go on a mission?”

“Some bad people kidnapped his daughter. They’re going to get her back now.”

“Awesome! Well, I mean, not that they kidnapped her, but it’s a rescue mission! That’s not the most awesome type of quest, but a lot of the epic stories have at least a little bit about needing to save a damsel in distress. I wonder if she’s pretty,” the child mused, looking into the middle distance as his imagination took over.

“People deserve help whether they’re pretty or not, you know,” Oliver said, stepping past the boy.

Theo turned to follow immediately, his schoolwork forgotten at the edge of the stairwell. “Well, of course,” he said in a tone that questioned Oliver’s intelligence. “But it’s a little more interesting when they’re pretty, don’t you think?”

Familiar dark eyes flashed in Oliver’s mind, but he hummed noncommittally.

“Say, do you think I could get a utility wand?” the boy asked, slyly watching Oliver out of the corner of his eye. “It’s dangerous on the streets,” he continued quickly. “I mean, just this week we’ve had a ton of people come in for help. A man got his leg crushed down on the docks. He went to a sham healer who just made it worse, and his friends brought him in to use one of our contacts, but by that time it was too late and his leg still had to be cut off. Wouldn’t it be better if I don’t have to have any limbs amputated?”

Oliver almost stumbled, but the boy didn’t seem to notice his stupefaction, and continued on as if his reasoning was entirely logical.

“Yesterday, a woman came in asking for help to scare off the men coming around her house asking for ‘taxes’ and threatening her. What if someone tries to mug me? I need to be able to defend myself, or at least get away.”

“Do you think it’s likely you will be mugged?” Oliver asked, keeping his voice even.

“Well, who knows? It’s better to be prepared, right? It would be too late to regret it once it actually happened. Plus, I heard Katerin talking about you getting mugged a while back, so obviously these things happen. And it’s not like I’m definitely safe just because I live in Stag territory. There’s a fight club on Dorset Lane that pulls people in off the street sometimes when they’re low on volunteers for the matches. Katerin sent Mr. Gerard out to deal with it, since they’re doing crime in our territory without permission.”

Oliver was half amused, half serious as he said, “That does sound serious.” He doubted the Morrows would be so bold or depraved as to go after a child, but that didn’t mean Theo wouldn’t run into a situation where he needed a little extra help. It was a dangerous world, and he was surrounded by people in a dangerous line of work.

The boy nodded gravely. “A woman was knocked into the canal by one of the Crowns who was galloping his horse in the street. She breathed in some water and got pneu-mo-nia.” He enunciated the unfamiliar word carefully, looking to Oliver to make sure he understood. “She had to spend all the money she was saving for her wedding on potions, and her fiance even started crying because he’d thought they wouldn’t be able to afford it. Wouldn’t it be much cheaper to pay for my utility wand now than pay for the healing fees when I get pneumonia?” Theo nodded seriously, dropping a fist into his other palm with satisfaction at his argument, then stared at Oliver with big eyes, as if he could make him agree through sheer force of will.

“Do you have an idea what spells you’d want in this utility wand?” Oliver asked, trying to keep the amusement from his voice.

Theo grinned so wide his eyes turned into slits, nodding rapidly. “Oh, yes! I’ve got a list in my room. Do you want to see it?”

Oliver waved him down before he could run off. “Not just yet. I’ll talk to your aunt Katerin about it and see what she thinks. If she approves, I’m sure it won’t be for free. You’ll have to be prepared to earn it.”

Theo was completely undeflated. “Yes! I can do anything. I’m already good with my sums. I could do the accounting for the Verdant Stag, or I could do deliveries, or I could even scrub the floors.”

Oliver doubted he would be doing any real work. And Theo’s math skills certainly weren’t advanced enough to do accounting, if the chalk scribbles he’d seen on the forgotten slate were to be trusted. If Katerin agreed, perhaps they could work out something with the boy’s tutor. A copper per extra completed assignment, put into a jar of savings for the wand, might give the boy a little more incentive to focus on his studies.

Katerin opened the door to her office just as they arrived in front of it. “So that’s where you ran off to,” she said, reaching out and smoothing the boy’s copper hair.

Theo ducked away from her hand. “Me and Mr. Oliver were talking about how good an idea it is for me to get a utility wand! He thinks so, too!”

She scowled. “Have you been bothering Mr. Oliver about that? Didn’t I tell you to finish your homework and then report back to me? Your tutor told me you haven’t fully completed the last three assignments he gave you, and you’ve been distracted during lessons…”

“I’m almost finished!” Theo hurried to assure her, his hands held up placatingly. “I was just accompanying Mr. Oliver so he wouldn’t be lonely! I’m going back now.” The boy turned and scurried off down the hall before Katerin could respond, picking up his chalk and slate and escaping.

Katerin shook her head ruefully, waving Oliver into her office.

He told her his idea for incentivizing Theo.

She pressed her red-painted lips together and sighed. “I suppose it might work. I swear, if it’s not about magic or adventure, that boy isn’t interested.”

Oliver smiled. “Children his age are all like that. You can’t tell me you actually appreciated the value of your studies when you were his age.”

“I suppose that’s true. It took real hardship for me to understand. I wouldn’t wish that for him. It’s not like I’m overflowing with money, but I could afford a few copper a day if it would change his attitude toward learning.” She crossed her arms and nodded. “I’ll talk to his tutor about this idea. The room for your meeting is already prepared. Your contacts haven’t arrived yet. I sent Harper to escort them from the docks. We should have a half hour yet.”

“Good. I wanted to get here early, and it’s a good thing I did. There was a bit of an incident on the way up, but I’ve sent Gerard out with an emergency response team to deal with it.” He explained the circumstances and the deal he’d made with the kidnapped girl’s father.

Katerin wrote out two copies of the agreement on a parchment with the blood print vow spell array already painted on it. “I’ll have him sign when they return. If he can’t afford payments, I’ll give him a couple hours on one of our street cleaner shifts,” she muttered, looking tired.

Oliver took a seat in front of her desk, noting the piles of paper covering its surface and the way the paleness of her skin let the shadows under her eyes stand out even more. “It’s late. You shouldn’t still be working.”

“You work even longer hours.”

“I don’t also have a child to take care of.”

She waved his words away, then reached for a folder and flipped briefly through its contents. “I need more funds for the sanitation facility. One of the biological waste processors broke down, and we need to bring in a Master artificer to fix it. Ideally, we would expand the facility to handle greater capacity, so this doesn’t happen again. Especially if we plan to expand Stag territory further. The human waste within our area already exceeds the recommended amounts for the sanitation facility’s current setup.”

Oliver nodded. “Alright. Are any of the other Stag interests bringing in enough income to cover it, or should I make another monetary infusion?”

“The short answer is: No.” She picked up another folder. “The Verdant Stag itself is profitable. The rented rooms, the bar, and the kitchen are in the black, considering the cost of the building and its repairs amortized over a fifteen-year period. The gambling is bringing in a modest profit, enough to cover the salary of the basic staff as well as myself, while still paying off the magical renovations you requested.”

“Good. At least the foundation is steady. And the rest?”

“Word about the miniature alchemy shop is spreading. Profits per item are low, as you requested, but with the increased volume, it is also in the black. Alice’s wages are well covered, and there are enough extra funds to consider expanding the inventory further. Siobhan’s contributions have been well-received, especially those potions of moonlight sizzle. Her work doesn’t have the quality of alchemy done by someone who’s made a career out of it; it’s obvious she hasn’t had hundreds of hours of practice with any of those potions, but it’s good enough to sell, and most people within Stag territory won’t be able to tell the difference. I thought it was just your bleeding heart making questionable decisions again when you brought her in, but it seems she might actually be a good investment.”

“I have an eye for people,” Oliver said, smiling. “Though I will admit, a sense of responsibility did play a role in my decision.”

“Well, in a couple years, perhaps she will be able to take over some of the more difficult magical projects. Bringing those in-house would save us a significant amount of gold. I had to spend eighty gold last week just on the liquid stone potions for the enforcers.”

She took a deep breath. “On that topic, the protection and emergency response project is still hemorrhaging money. Extracting promises of payment from individuals who’ve been aided is stemming some of the flow, but without extorting general protection money from those who live and do business in the area, it’s simply not enough.”

Oliver rubbed a finger over the edge of his mask, then took it off, the magic releasing his skin with an inaudible pop of suction. “I don’t want to charge general protection fees. That’s extortion. The people already pay taxes.”

“Taxes that are supposed to fund the coppers. Coppers who can’t be bothered to do their job, and who we are replacing with our own system, without being compensated. Have you considered that some people might be reluctant to ask for help when they know they’ll be put into debt for it? If there was a standard, low fee for all citizens within our territory, those who needed to use our services could feel unburdened doing so.”

“We’re building a network. It’s not just about the money. We want the debt, the favors, people looking to help us because they are singled out when we give aid, rather than it being a general public service. The loans we’re giving to cover our services aren’t debilitating. We allow long-term repayment plans so the payments are low, and we give them jobs to do if they don’t have the gold. It shouldn’t be that much of a burden.”

“That’s part of the problem. For instance, the man you just told me about. He has a debt of fifty gold. Perhaps, with interest, he ends up paying us six silver a month for the next ten years, and we get seventy gold out of it. But our response team may cost the Stag sixty to seventy gold for this operation, especially if they need to use magic or any of them get injured. We spend the money now, and perhaps make it back over the long term. And that’s not taking into account the things we’ve been handling where there’s no one to call in a debt, which means we eat the expense. This project is losing money, and it’s getting worse.

“The sanitation project already has no hope of being profitable. The micro-farming warehouse is going to take some time yet before it starts bringing in money, and with the other properties you want to buy, the bribes for the coppers, and the surveys you’re paying for…” She shook her head helplessly. “You know as well as I do that altruism has to be met with realism, Oliver. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Oliver rubbed his forehead. “I’m prepared to lose money on some necessary things for the time being. I cannot have my people afraid to walk the streets. The Stags must become a symbol of trust and good governance. The more people contrast us against the other gangs and the Crowns, the better. However, perhaps there is some middle ground. It’s not the sole project I want to implement, after all, and everything costs money.”

“Well, I will say that I was skeptical about the surveys, but I’m beginning to see why you wanted them. Since we implemented the sanitation project, illness in our territory has decreased by approximately fifteen percent.”

Oliver allowed himself a genuine smile. “That’s wonderful. If we could get some basic sanitation artifacts into every home, we could probably get it down even further. I’ve been lobbying for the tax on soap to be abolished, but…” He didn’t bother finishing the familiar complaint. The Crowns weren’t interested in anything he had to say, not if it had a chance to lower their income or increase the power of the commoners. “As for the warehouse, perhaps my meeting today will bear fruit.”

Katerin brightened. “If you will, ask them if they have access to any battle artifacts. I’ve been stocking up as they become available here, but I’ve found no reliable source within the city.”

A few minutes before his new smuggling contacts were scheduled to arrive, Oliver and three of his enforcers went to the room Katerin had set up for the meeting. After speaking to the information broker, he’d received contact information for an intermediary, who’d passed along his request to speak to the person really in charge of the operation, the captain of a small fleet who smuggled magical items into the city, hidden among legitimate imports. The captain’s ships had just docked a couple days before, and only now could Oliver finally meet him.

Oliver looked around the room approvingly, motioning for two of the enforcers to stand against the back wall unobtrusively, while the third stood outside the door.

The room had been immaculately cleaned, the windows and floorboards polished, subtle wealth and power in every detail. A large, thronelike chair sat behind an imposing desk that looked like it might have been carved whole from a single giant tree. In front of the desk were a few shorter chairs, subtly forcing his guests to look up at him. The lighting was soft, the main source a light crystal that hung from the ceiling behind his desk, to better blend the shadows with the artificial darkness behind his mask.

He settled in the large chair behind the desk and took out the single folder Katerin had placed in a drawer. It was simply there for him to pretend to look over while they entered.

The captain arrived shortly afterward, and when the enforcer in front of the door knocked and announced this, Oliver said, “Send them in,” immediately. There was no point making them wait as a power play, since he’d been the one to invite them to use the Stag’s discreet, neutral meeting rooms. Oliver trusted the setting and his own charisma to make any necessary statement about wealth and power.

A sun-weathered man with the slightly wide gait of someone used to the pitch and roll of a ship’s deck introduced himself as Captain Eliezer. He was accompanied by a couple of his men, who followed slightly behind and stayed mostly silent.

Oliver welcomed them cordially.

Eliezer’s men eyed Oliver’s mask and then the enforcers at the back of the room with obvious discomfort, but neither side made any threatening overtures, and Captain Eliezer himself seemed unfazed.

After a couple minutes of small talk, during which Oliver offered them each a glass of ridiculously expensive alcohol, let them grow comfortable in the opulently plush seats, and bragged about the security wards surrounding the room, they finally got down to business.

“I’ve been told you have access to certain luxury items that can be difficult to obtain in Gilbratha. I have need of a variety of such items. Do you think you can provide?” He handed Captain Eliezer a sheet of paper with a list of magical plants he wanted seeds, shoots, or graftable clippings from, along with the various special materials that would be necessary to successfully cultivate them.

The man read carefully down the list without any change of expression, then looked back up at Oliver. “I can get most of the seeds, and maybe some of the smaller shoots or clippings, if you’re willing to pay for stasis spells so they don’t die in transit, but some of these are too large or otherwise noticeable to get through the customs inspections at the docks.”

Oliver had expected that might be the case. “If you’re still able to obtain those things, perhaps another port might be slightly more lax? I have a contact that could pick them up elsewhere.” From there, he could either figure out how to get them into the city himself, or perhaps cultivate them outside it, only bringing in the more subtle final products of those plants. There were problems with that plan, too, but anything was possible, with time, money, and a bit of cleverness.

Eliezer hesitated. “There is another issue. You are requesting the capability to produce the end products, which we otherwise provide to other interested parties within Gilbratha. If you become a supplier, this could decrease our trade volume. I’m not willing to put my long-term livelihood, and that of my crew, at risk for a single paycheck.”

Oliver dipped his head in acknowledgment, wrapping his fingers around the polished wood of his chair and leaning back. “I completely understand. I’m willing to pay a premium on those items which won’t be part of an ongoing order. However, let me reassure you, the components produced from these plants are not going to be sold on the open market. They’ll be used for various things in-house, and shouldn’t affect your trade with any other interested parties, within or outside of Gilbratha.”

Eliezer didn’t seem particularly reassured by that.

“This isn’t all that I need. I’m hoping to establish an ongoing relationship with you in other areas as well. Particularly, I need battle artifacts and a variety of alchemical concoctions. For the artifacts, it matters not if their spells are charged, though the price I will pay would adjust accordingly.”

Eliezer nodded slowly.

“For the potions and philtres, I’m interested in some more magically intensive varieties, useful for both offense and defense. I would require they be fresh and brewed at standard efficacy, if not greater. I would expect you to test them upon receipt, as I won’t pay for any of sub-par quality.”

“We already have buyers for battle artifacts and a variety of potions,” Eliezer said leadingly.

“You cannot increase your volume?” Oliver questioned. “This would seem to be only a good thing for you. I am willing to pay a slight premium for the highest quality of your stock, and you are free to continue trading with whoever else you like. Three percent.”

Eliezer thought for a moment, then said, “What kind of volume are you looking for with the artifacts and alchemy? I have one main ship and two smaller ones, and some items are only worth the time and space in my cargo at higher volumes, or if I pick them up with another order.”

“For this first shipment, I’m willing to purchase as many as you can provide. After that, we can discuss our ongoing relationship again.”

Eliezer scanned the room again, his eyes lingering on the signs of wealth all around him. “Agreed. Seeds will be hidden within larger bags of grain. Shoots and clippings will be held in stasis within seemingly decorative containers. Kegs and bottles of alcohol will hold the alchemical items. For the battle artifacts, it can be a little more tricky depending on their size and shape. The price for whatever we use to disguise the transfer will be included in the payment.”

They took a few minutes to draw up a full list of the other items Oliver was interested in, then haggled over the price for each.

At the end, Eliezer nodded, tucking the paper into his pocket. “Alright, we will bring the things you need. It will take a few months, at this time of year. Any bribes to the dock officials or the coppers will be borne by you as well.”

Oliver shook his head, his tone firm. “No. Bribes will come out of your own pockets. After all, what incentive do you have to be frugal, otherwise? I’m already paying a premium for the plants, as well as the choicest artifacts and potions. If you cannot afford your own bribes, your business is not run as smoothly as I hoped.”

Eliezer glared at him for a moment, leathery wrinkles deepening around his squinting eyes, but finally gave a sharp nod. “Fine.”

Oliver offered them another glass of liquor before they left.

Eliezer, a little more at ease now that the negotiations were finished, accepted with a yellow-toothed smile that was duplicated by his men. “Never known a sailor to refuse a good drink,” he said.

They left soon after, refusing Oliver’s offer of an escort back to their inn, and Oliver settled back in his miniature throne, the exhilaration of success pushing away his fatigue. It might take a few months to see the effects, but this new relationship would make a difference.

Artifacts and potions for his enforcers, to protect them and make them more effective in their jobs, and plants to bring the micro-farm warehouse into quick profitability while subsidizing the ingredients for the alchemy shop. Maybe there would even be something suitable for Theo among the artifacts.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note—Please Read!:

I just got the completed first novel in this series back from my awesome line editor. There have been some changes made here and there. Mostly prose, but also some minor alterations to the story. “A Conjuring of Ravens,” book 1 in the Practical Guide to Sorcery Series, is going to be published around the end of January. (No preorder links yet.)

If any of you are interested in reading a pre-release version of this book (Chapters 1-37, plus a prologue) before it’s officially available, I am looking to put together a Typo Hunting Team. This story has already been gone over several times, but inevitably things slip through the cracks, or mistakes are created while editing or tweaking other things. I want to get more sharp eyeballs on it.

Those of you who are interested can sign up here: https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/a1y2t4

As a thank you, people who join the team and complete the assignment will be getting a paperback copy of the published book, a signed bookplate sticker (it goes in the front of your book just like an author signature), and a $20 e-gift card to the bookstore of your choice.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-27-study-group/

Table of contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 27 - Study Group

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 25, Wednesday 5:30 a.m.

Mid-week, Sebastien was woken early by forcefully hissed whispers and a few grumbling mutters. It took her longer to become alert than normal, as if her thoughts were rising through molasses. When her eyes finally gained the ability to focus, she sat up and saw that Damien Westbay, already dressed and hair perfectly groomed, was leaned over a nearby bed, shaking Alec Gervin’s shoulder in an attempt to wake him. The rest of Westbay’s group of followers were also up, gathering their clothes and stumbling off to the bathrooms to get dressed.

Other nearby students, who had also been awakened, complained at Westbay’s noisemaking. One clamped a pillow around her head and flopped back down with a loud huff.

Sebastien rubbed the sleep from her eyes and checked her pocket watch. It was too late for her to bother going back to sleep, despite her fatigue. She stood up, swaying slightly, and made her way to the bathrooms to get dressed. ‘Imbecilic troglodyte. Poor excuse for a sorcerer,’ she thought with a scowl as she passed Westbay.

When she returned from the bathroom, his group was standing outside their dormitory doors and arguing. Someone had at least had the presence of mind to close the doors so they didn’t continue disturbing the other students. Both Ana and Westbay held some familiar equipment in their arms.

Sebastien’s gaze sharpened. They had the same devices Lacer had given her to practice with outside of class.

“Sebastien!” Ana said brightly, her hair still loose around her shoulders. Her eyes trailed over him, and she grimaced slightly. “I’m sorry if we woke you. Alec has always slept like a tranquilized rhinoceros.”

As if on cue, the other girl, who had dark hair and was wearing a dress rather than the trousers Ana seemed to favor, elbowed Alec in the side without looking.

While Ana’s cousin pouted and rubbed at his ribs, Sebastien straightened her clothing and ran a hand through her tangled hair, attempting to seem more awake. “It’s alright—”

“Siverling rises early every morning to practice anyway, right?” Westbay said, not quite softly enough to be under his breath.

Sebastien lifted her chin. “I do,” she said.

Ana smiled charmingly, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. “Exactly. When Damien heard about it, he quite admired your work ethic. We have decided to start an early morning study session of our own.”

Westbay gave Ana a dubious look, and Sebastien doubted that boy had ever stated such a charitable word as “admire” about her.

Sebastien’s lips quirked up at the thought.

Ana’s smile grew more cheerful, as if pure, forceful obliviousness were its own type of magic. “So! We were thinking you should join us. You are working on Professor Lacer’s additional exercises, and the two of us are as well. Damien’s bullied the rest of the group into accompanying us. Why not practice together? Perhaps we could exchange some pointers.”

Westbay scowled. “I’m sure Siverling prefers to work without distraction.”

That was true. Additionally, Sebastien didn’t know half the group, and of the ones she did, the only one she liked was Anastasia. Her morning would likely become markedly less productive if she were to share it with them. She opened her mouth to refuse, but caught the faint hint of satisfaction in Westbay’s expression. She wasn’t sure if it was the idea of being contrary just for the sake of it, or the memory that Westbay’s Family lead the coppers, and he knew about her case, that changed her mind.

‘Perhaps I’ll be able to get him to talk about it.’ She smiled, keeping as much vindictiveness out of the expression as possible. “I would be delighted, thank you, Ana.” She went back into the dorms to grab her things and the practice equipment Professor Lacer had given her, then followed the group to an empty classroom not far from the outer doors of the Citadel.

Ana introduced the rest of the group as they settled in.

Alec Gervin she was familiar with already, having met him along with Westbay when they tried to cut in line that first day. He was the loud one with the bushy black eyebrows. ‘And he also apparently has some sort of sleep disorder,’ she thought uncharitably.

Waverly Ascott was the other girl. She was quiet, but her eyes were alert and quick to narrow in a threatening scowl when one of the others annoyed her. She nodded perfunctorily when introduced to Sebastien, then pulled a thick book about the Plane of Radiance out of her bag and began to read, ignoring the rest of them.

Ambrose Setterlund, a young man who was too tall to be so shy, waved his hand rapidly when introduced and mumbled, “Call me Brinn,” with a blush on his cheeks. He sat next to Ascott.

The final boy was probably the most handsome of the group, with dark wavy hair that he had let grow a little below his ears and a sharp nose. Rhett Moncrieffe bowed easily to Sebastien, seeming neither particularly pleased nor displeased at her company, and set a briefcase on a side table.

Westbay groaned aloud. “Must you, Rhett? We are here to study, not play.”

The handsome boy tossed his hair and gave Westbay a snooty look. “This is study. My field of interest is simply more…diverting than yours. I need to practice, and it’s not as if there are dueling rings set up in here for me to actually train. Don’t be so sanctimonious.”

Alec Gervin stood, his chair making a scraping sound against the floor. “I will study with you, Rhett.”

The two of them set up on the side table with an unfolding wooden board and two small humanoid pieces. They set the pieces in their respective Circles on the board, and began to shoot “spells” that seemed to be just tiny beams of light at each other, while dodging the incoming attacks from their game-piece opponent.

The entire group perked up a bit when Westbay pulled a kettle down from the cabinet on the far wall and filled it with ground coffee. They set up around a large table while the water heated, and Westbay cast the spell to turn the coffee into wakefulness brew himself, with the kind of proud look a child might wear after “helping” their mother to bake bread. The coffee—probably some expensive luxury strain—had taken the magic even more smoothly than the beans in Dryden’s kitchen, and Sebastien had to admit it was delicious, too.

Brinn Setterlund, the tall young man, had hurried to pour Waverly her coffee, which he handed to her with a puppylike smile. She accepted the cup with a distracted nod, barely looking up from her book.

With the sand wheel on the table, Sebastien palmed her Conduit and began to cast, only part of her concentration on the metal ball within, which had been ground down to matte smoothness from the constant sanding. “So your Family is in charge of the coppers, right, Westbay? The ones doing the investigation into that sorceress who stole from the University a couple months ago?”

“Yes. My brother Titus is in charge of the investigative task force.”

“Right. The task force that hasn’t caught her and whose lone clue is that she managed to speak to her accomplice even after they jailed him.”

He scowled, the bags under his eyes standing out.

Before he could speak, she continued, idly spinning her ball faster. “So what is it that she even stole? Rumor at the market is that it was some priceless artifact from an archaeological dig, but is that true?”

He sniffed. “She stole a book, apparently. Perhaps it had powerful or illegal spells in it, I don’t know. However, as to your insinuations about the investigators, let me set you straight. Her accomplice spilled his guts on the first day they brought him in, and freely revealed her attempts to contact him the second time, as well. The only reason we haven’t caught her yet is that she’s been quiet. No doubt she’s lying low for fear that we’ll have her soon. But we know she’s still in the city. That particular messenger spell must be used close by the recipient. It’s likely she is being hidden by some other criminals, perhaps ones who wanted the book, but eventually someone will slip up, and then we’ll have her and the whole ring of colluders!”

Sebastien spun her ball even faster, till the sand began to heat with its passing, and then slowed it abruptly. The minimalist spell array glowed with inefficiency as the ball slowed, and then dimmed as the ball began to spin the opposite direction and gain speed again. Undoing the momentum the ball had built up so quickly required a level of energy she couldn’t channel all at once. Perhaps one day, the ball would stop in an instant, with a cracking sound like a miniature bolt of lightning. She could dream, at least. “But is there any actual way for the coppers to catch her, if she or one of her accomplices doesn’t carelessly reveal themselves? Are there any leads?”

Westbay looked from her spell Circle back to his own with a frown, spinning his ball faster. He was good, better than most of their classmates, but it was obvious to Sebastien that he hadn’t practiced as much as her. “She is skilled, and has been careful,” he said. “But she’s cocky, too. She wants to be seen, to be noticed, that’s why she commits such outrageous crimes in broad daylight. She will act again, she cannot help it, and when she does, she will make a mistake, and we will catch her.”

Sebastien raised her eyebrows, indignation at that assessment rising up inside her. She clamped down on the emotion and sent her ball on a series of fast, jerking turns back and forth.

Gervin, who had grown bored with losing to Rhett, stood up and stepped closer, watching with interest. “How are you doing that?”

Without thinking, she replied, “I can explain it to you, but I cannot understand it for you.”

The cogs between his ears moved slowly as he processed her words. His eyes widened. “Did you just insult me?”

“I didn’t mean to offend you. My intention was to insult you without you noticing.” The words spilled from her in a bout of ire, and it was only after they were out, hanging in the air like little guillotines over her neck, that she realized it may have been slightly uncalled for. Perhaps even a little rude. ‘I must be more tired than I realized, to be acting so recklessly.’ Still, she wouldn’t take the words back. She waited for the response to come, the anger and outrage.

Ascott burst out laughing.

Once the dam of tension broke, the others followed suit. Even Gervin, a few belated seconds later, gave her a grudging chuckle. “Not bad, not bad.”

Moncrieffe nodded at her from his corner as if bestowing a boon. “You have a sharp tongue, Siverling. I can respect a man who is milquetoast in neither word nor action.”

Her surprise was a warm tingle running down her unclenching back. She had plenty of experience with people’s response to her sharp tongue. Most had their feelings too easily hurt, even if the things she said didn’t hold any particular intent to offend. The average person was shocked and offended by the obvious truth being spoken boldly to their face, and rather than change the thing about themselves they didn’t like hearing, or simply avoiding her, they started crying or got angry and decided she was an enemy to be revenged upon.

She should really be more careful. The people in this group were powerful, and could have made her life difficult indeed if they had chosen to take offense. In fact, even Westbay himself could have chosen to take out his dislike of her in more direct ways. As far as she knew, he hadn’t. Perhaps he was not entirely without honor.

She gave Ascott a small smile of gratitude, but the other girl didn’t acknowledge it, her attention back on her book.

Westbay had laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes, and he, too, gave Sebastien a grudging nod of acknowledgement. “You may be an arrogant ass, but you have the skill to back it up, at least.”

Sebastien didn’t argue with his label for her, since one reckless insult per day was probably enough.

“I told you, Damien,” Ana said. “In twenty years, the Siverling name will be common knowledge.”

Something in Sebastien’s chest warmed at that thought. Fame might not be her goal, but excellence was, and true excellence would be noticed, if she were doing it right.

After she’d run through her paces on the main exercise, she replaced the sand wheel with a three-dimensional glass maze, one of the other practice aids Professor Lacer had given her. The glass cube had a smaller steel ball inside. She modified the spell array and began to guide the ball through the maze without touching any of its walls. It required a fine control the sand wheel didn’t, but was easier to hold clearly in her mind than the sympathetic movement one. It was a nice break from the monotony the other two exercises had become.

“You’ve already moved on to the second supplementary exercise? It hasn’t even been a month since this term started!” Westbay said, suddenly outraged.

Sebastien frowned, trying to maintain her focus. “It gets boring casting the same spells for hours every day. I’m just getting a head start on this one while I keep refining my control on the first.” Her ball bumped into a corner as she moved it too quickly, and she grimaced. Every time that happened, the maze’s walls shifted, rearranging the cube’s entire internal structure.

She resolved to see if she could create a pseudo-repelling force between the glass and the ball. They’d briefly reviewed the basics of magnetism the week before in her Natural Science class, and it seemed like the perfect workaround to remove her need for, and failure to provide, superhuman reaction speeds. Of course, doing that without any components except heat might still be beyond her, but it was theoretically possible.

Westbay grumbled and took out his own glass maze, studying Sebastien’s simplified spell array before setting up his own.

Ana moved on to the paired movement spell with an amused glance at Westbay’s efforts. “You’re taking seven classes, Damien. You can’t expect to keep up with Sebastien. He only takes six. And he barely sleeps, you know.”

Neither Sebastien nor Westbay found her words soothing.

Sebastien resisted the immediate urge to tell Westbay that she’d still be beating him even if she were taking eight classes. ‘I’m not a child. It’s okay if he’s taking more classes than me and still somehow has time to sleep. He’s had tutors preparing him for this his whole life. I don’t need to say anything. I just need to work harder.’

Westbay glared at both Sebastien and Anastasia, then returned his focus to the new exercise. He was clumsy at first, but improved noticeably over the next hour.

Soon enough, the breakfast period began. “Don’t think you can slack off, Siverling,” Westbay said as they left the room. “Professor Lacer told me he thinks I might have a talent for free-casting, just like my mother.”

“It runs in my family, too,” she couldn’t help but snap back, her voice cold.

The study group dispersed, Moncrieffe slouching off with Gervin, and Ascott muttering something about getting black beans from the kitchen to make an offering to a spirit. Ana smiled and thanked Sebastien for joining them, while Westbay hurried ahead.

Brinn added his own shy smile and said, “You’ll come again next time, won’t you? Damien may be competitive, but he secretly loves having someone new and interesting around. It would be good for him to have someone to compare himself to who’s closer to our own level.”

Sebastien made no promises. The wakefulness brew was tempting, at least, even if she didn’t have the time to spare for inefficient socializing.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-28-admit-you-dont-understand/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 28 - Admit You Don't Understand

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 25, Wednesday 10:45 a.m.

In Sebastien’s Natural Science class later that day, she found the slate experiment tables covered with equipment when she arrived. Glass beakers, half full with liquid, sat with spiral tubes coming from their rubber-sealed mouths. For every two beakers there were three small jars, each containing a piece of raw meat. Finally, rolls of gauze and wax paper.

Sebastien sat at her desk and examined the supplies with curiosity while the other students filed in.

As soon as the bell rang, Professor Gnorrish stood up from his desk and said, “We’ve spent the last month on a blisteringly fast review of the basics. Some of you had a better foundation in natural science than others, but this review should have given you a good understanding of where you need more study. Which is everywhere. In my opinion, every single one of you knows close to nothing.”

He waited for the mutters, frowns, and uncomfortable shifting to subside. “But that’s okay. I myself know close to nothing. I’m not afraid to admit that. In the grand expanse of reality—cause and effect and the underpinnings of how things really work—I understand very little. It’s important to admit when you don’t understand. And in your lack of understanding, you should be skeptical.”

Sebastien leaned forward, intrigued.

“That is the foundation of scientific progress,” he continued. “Before the Blood Empire, for thousands of years it was common knowledge, accepted by the learned and unlearned alike, that life could come from somewhere besides a progenitor. People believed that mice were created from the mud and heat of a riverbank every year in the summer. They knew that scallops formed in sand. Their parents and teachers told them that insects could be created, spontaneously generated, from decaying animal or plant matter, and people saw what they believed to be evidence that corroborated this universal understanding.”

He waved his arms around to emphasize the absurdity. “But no one actually understood the theory of spontaneous generation. They only thought they did, because the truth of it was before everyone’s eyes to see. They knew life was created by ‘spontaneous generation.’” He crooked his fingers into quotation marks in the air. “They knew things fell because of ‘gravity.’ They knew the answer to one plus one is ‘two.’ They had memorized the answer key, if you will, and could even do limited extrapolation from it, but their answer didn’t actually tell them anything about how the world worked. If they were given chalk, a fire, and no further components—limited to transmutation—they couldn’t have designed a spell array that could replicate the process through every microsecond and down to the very cells, indistinguishable from the natural occurrence. They didn’t understand.”

‘Replicating the process exactly with only transmutation? Is that his criterion for true understanding?’ Sebastien thought. It seemed an impossibly rigorous standard. So much so that she questioned whether he actually expected anyone to really achieve it, or if he was just trying to knock them down a peg so they would be more willing to learn.

“Now, let’s do a couple experiments on spontaneous generation,” he announced with a huge grin, turning to the chalkboard at the front of the room and touching the control to reveal the instructions written there. “Move as quickly as possible while still maintaining care,” he urged. “There’s a lot to cover, and we only have ninety minutes.”

The two beakers contained nutrient broth. They were to be brought to a boil, thus killing any bacteria or fungus currently living within. When the students had finished that and were quite sure the mixture was sterile, they could remove the spiral tube from one of the beakers, exposing its mouth directly to the air.

The three jars holding chunks of raw meat were to have their lids removed. One was left open to the air. They tied gauze over the mouth of the second. The third, they sealed with the wax paper.

Once this was done, they labeled everything with their name, then everyone placed the meat jars into a Circle drawn on the floor on one side of the experiment space, and put the sterilized nutrient-broth beakers into another.

As they worked, Professor Gnorrish lectured, walking among them. “When testing a hypothesis, such as ‘life does not need to come from seed, eggs, or parents, but can spontaneously generate,’ we must attempt to disprove it. Only when it stands up to rigorous trials can a hypothesis be tentatively considered ‘truth.’ Even then, new discoveries and understandings may disprove your prior ‘truth,’ or simply update the depth of your understanding of the model.”

He stopped to help a woman who was having trouble tying her gauze over the meat jar’s mouth. “Historical documents show that some of the more learned and curious did do experiments on spontaneous generation. One lord even listed a series of recipes for creating various types of life. By all accounts, he carried out these experiments himself and recorded the outcomes. To create mice, put a piece of soiled cloth in wheat, and wait twenty-one days. To create scorpions, place basil between two bricks and leave it in the sunlight. Just more proof of spontaneous generation, right?”

Beside Sebastien, Ana laughed aloud.

Professor Gnorrish spun and pointed at her. “Ah! It sounds absurd now, right? How could they have believed such silly things? But don’t make the mistake of thinking the human species has gotten any more intelligent in the last three hundred years. If you were born in those times, and I was standing here in class explaining to you how spontaneous generation worked, would you think to question me? Would you think to question such an obvious process?”

Ana gave him a crooked smile, but didn’t answer.

“Let me phrase it another way,” he said, turning to the other students. “Have you ever questioned how life is created from seed, egg, or parent? Do you understand it well enough to replicate the process if the entire world were destroyed, and it was up to you to recreate life out of primordial energy? How are you sure that I know what I’m talking about, or that anyone does? Do you think it possible that in another hundred years, students will be standing in this classroom laughing at the absurdity of the things you currently believe?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Damien said from a few tables away. “You just said as much yourself.”

Professor Gnorrish applauded him. “Exactly. Your professors aren’t going to be able to teach you everything, or even most things, really.”

Damien preened.

“But back to experiments on spontaneous generation. Where these historical practitioners of natural science went wrong is that they didn’t try hard enough to disprove their belief. If they had, maybe they would have seen that their model of the world didn’t stand up to harsh scrutiny. So, today, we will scrutinize harshly.”

As the students finished setting up the experiments and placed them inside the pre-drawn spell arrays on the floor, he waved them away, then took out some components and began to place them in the spell array around the beakers with the nutrient broth. “Master Pasteur, a researcher working under the Blood Emperor, devised a test to disprove the theory of spontaneous generation of life. By boiling, we’ve killed any small organisms that were inside the beakers. You have removed the tube in the mouth of one beaker, while leaving the other. The liquid inside the beaker without a tube is directly exposed to any organisms within the air, while the spiral formation of the remaining tube will help to keep organisms from reaching the broth, while still allowing air to travel freely. Any dust, bacteria, or fungi will settle on the bottom of the successive spirals.”

He looked up from his preparation. “One of the theories was that air was necessary for spontaneous generation, you see, so we want to make sure that both have air, the only difference being that one broth will be exposed to everything, and the other will receive air with the impurities settled out.” He lit a brazier for power, reviewed everything, and nodded to himself. “Watch closely, now, to make sure I don’t pull any tricks.”

He stood, took out a small paper packet, and tossed its powdery contents into the air over the beakers. A fraction of a second later, an almost-invisible barrier dome sprang up from the spell array surrounding the beakers. “I have just thrown active yeast into the air, and the barrier is to keep any wind from blowing it around, as well as prevent other unexpected variables. It will settle and get into the beakers with the open mouths.” When the air inside the dome had cleared, he grinned. “I am also casting a modified healing spell to encourage rapid growth and reproduction of said yeast, which, if you remember, is a form of fungus.”

Sebastien’s mind latched on to a particular part of his statement. ‘He’s speeding up growth with a modified healing spell? It seems feasible. Magic can heal a wound or overcome a sickness much more quickly than the body would be able to on its own. Even whole limbs could be regrown with enough power and the right components. But how does that work? Could I do that to encourage an animal to mature more quickly? To have a fruit tree producing food within a couple weeks, instead of years?’

She looked at the components, one of which was a lumpy thing she didn’t recognize, but which had the telltale glow of being from the Plane of Radiance. ‘No, that’s much too expensive. It can’t be sustainable for any real-world application.’

The students watched for the next few minutes with growing boredom as nothing particular seemed to be happening. Sebastien considered going back to her desk and trying to get some studying in, but remembered Professor Gnorrish’s admonition to be skeptical. ‘He might alter the results of the experiment if I’m not watching,’ she told herself playfully. She crossed her arms and glowered at him threateningly, looking over the spell array once again, this time to make sure he was really casting what he said he was.

When Gnorrish deemed enough time had passed, he turned the maintenance of the barrier spell over to one of his student aids and moved to the second experiment. “We’ll give that one a little time. Now, the recipe for maggots!” he announced dramatically. “Place meat in a warm place. Wait one to three days.”

He grabbed a small terrarium box full of live flies from the supply closet, activated another barrier spell, and released them inside. They found the uncovered meat quickly enough, and were also drawn to the gauze-covered jar. “Maggots take about twenty-four hours to hatch from their eggs, normally, but since you will be gone by then, we’ll just speed things up a little.”

When he was finished, he had another student aid take over that barrier, and resumed pacing around, the occasional wild gesture coming close to knocking against a table, piece of equipment, or a student who wasn’t prepared to dodge. “We’ve come a long way in the last few hundred years. New ideas and advancements have sparked a renaissance that has improved the lives of humans all the way from the Thirteen Crowns to the most humble pauper. But don’t mistake these advancements in our understanding of natural science as easy or simple. These new ideas, now accepted as common knowledge, were not obvious at the time, and were often simply one among multiple potentially plausible theories. Most of the time, new theories are disproved. Do not assume, without rigorous testing and extreme skepticism, that your shiny new idea about how things work is inherently superior just because it is new. All things must be judged for truth, and that which can be destroyed by the truth should be.”

Sebastien felt the rightness of those words. ‘That which can be destroyed by the truth should be,’ she repeated to herself. ‘Is there anything in me which might be destroyed by truth?’

“There was a study done on University students a few decades back that judged how well they retained information after the class was over and they had no need to regurgitate what the teacher wanted to hear onto a test paper. The results were…abysmal. Shameful, for an institution of learning such as this one. More effort was poured into understanding why this was, and what we could do about it. We’re still doing our best, and still failing for a multitude of reasons, but there was one particularly interesting result of this research.

“Students who were willing to admit that they didn’t know, that they didn’t understand, rather than fumbling for an answer that used the keywords they’d been taught to associate with the topic, showed a marked increase in their ability to learn and retain information. They didn’t just fill in the blank with something, hoping to be right. They didn’t reach into their memory and pull out a phrase their teacher had written on the blackboard for emphasis. The biggest correlation with successful learning was how many times they continued to say that they didn’t understand.”

He continued to lecture, delving deeper into some historical discoveries that were controversial at the time, and the methods that were used in attempts to prove or disprove them. At the end of class, he used a spell to clean up the spilled yeast and the flies, then took away the barriers around both experiments.

Sebastien found her own quickly enough, her spider-scrawl handwriting distinct.

The nutrient broth in the beaker whose spiral tube she had extracted was cloudy with growing yeast. Little disks that looked like lily pads floated on top, and sediment settled to the bottom. It looked absolutely disgusting.

Maggots were crawling on the piece of meat with no lid, and interestingly, on top of the gauze-covered jar, as if trying to get down to the meat. The parchment-covered jar was free of the little squirming worms entirely.

“If you believed in spontaneous generation before you did these experiments,” Gnorrish said, “you should rethink your understanding of the world. Let me leave you with one last piece of information to chew on. Spontaneous generation among mundane living organisms has been widely disproved. If you told anyone you think a barnacle goose grows from a goose barnacle, they would laugh and think you an uneducated nincompoop.”

The bell rang, but no one moved to leave.

“But the current literature all agrees that under-bed dust bunnies spontaneously generate in dark, dusty areas that are frequently exposed to magic, likely from the dead skin cells of a magical being combined with other fluff and dirt.” He let that hang in the air for a moment, then waved his hands in a shooing motion. “That’s all for today. Go on then, get to lunch. But don’t forget to think. And don’t be afraid to admit that you don’t know, and don’t understand!”

His words lingered in her mind through the next day, which started with Professor Ilma’s History of Magic.

The blue-tinted woman jumped immediately into the meat of class, as always. “There is much of history that is lost to us. The oldest signs of human civilization have been dated to approximately seven hundred thousand years ago. Not the oldest sign of humans, but the oldest humans that were obviously acting as sentient, sapient creatures and working together as a community to build a life. And yet, we know almost nothing about history beyond ten thousand years ago. Why is this?” She pointed to a random student.

“Because of the Cataclysm,” the student replied immediately. “Approximately ten thousand years ago, there was a catastrophic event that destroyed the civilizations of the time. Humans were set back to nomadic hunting and gathering. Whatever records these pre-Cataclysm civilizations would have kept were destroyed.”

Ilma nodded and continued. “It took approximately five hundred years for the population to expand and for people to start rebuilding. Written language was preserved among some, which helped to kick-start civilization again, and gives us some idea about times before, or at least what people several generations later thought they knew about the pre-Cataclysm world. But by then, much was already lost, with only scattered and contradictory tales passed down orally. At this point, humans were still far from the dominant species on Earth, and we were scrabbling to survive among the more powerful sapients and beasts. We had only just begun to develop, or re-develop, the foundations of structured magic.

“What caused the Cataclysm?” She pointed at a man.

He was less quick to respond than the previous student. “Umm, we don’t know?”

She nodded. “True. But there are theories. Many of them. Anyone?”

“A falling star hit the planet,” someone offered.

“Good. Keep going,” Ilma said, waving her hands impatiently.

“The beast king woke from his sleep,” someone else said.

“The strongest thaumaturges in existence went to war with each other, with no care for collateral damage.” The answers were coming faster now.

“We were attacked by one of the Elemental Planes.”

“The Titans went insane.”

“Magic broke.”

“We were attacked by some alien force, or an eldritch being from the outer darkness.”

“Good,” Ilma said. “There is another theory. It’s a bit broader, and could have triggered many of the events you just mentioned.” Her voice went slow and cold, her eyes roving over theirs. “We experimented with powers better left alone.”

Sebastien shivered.

“But speculation aside, we do have some hints at the lost knowledge. Not enough to piece together a coherent tapestry, but enough tattered threads to guess that something was there before. Can someone give me a hint, the end of a thread that we might pull?” She pointed to Sebastien.

Sebastien straightened. “Where did the Blood Emperor and his people come from?”

Ilma smiled. “Yes. Good. Simple calculations can tell us that the planet is much larger than the area that we have mapped. The seas are dangerous, and the wilderness filled with beasts. But we have proof that other humans developed a society somewhere beyond the northern ice oceans. Curious, that although the Blood Empire ruled for over a hundred years and was a huge influence on our society, we know almost nothing about the place they came from.”

“It was deliberate,” Sebastien said. “It had to have been.”

“Yes, that seems the only logical explanation,” Ilma agreed. “Let’s pull on another thread. Hints at our lost history. Mysteries. Anyone?”

“Who built Gilbratha’s wall? It’s obviously a Circle. Could it have been part of the largest spell array known to mankind?” another girl asked.

Ilma hummed. “Not bad. Several different accounts claim different things. Some say Myrddin raised these stones. Some say it was here long before that, during the war with the Brillig, meant to be a huge weapon to wipe out their race. Some say it was here even before that, meant to be a shield against the Titans themselves. I don’t know who raised it, but divination spells hint it is very old. Almost certainly it was here before Myrddin, though it’s curious that there aren’t signs of occupation within these walls before his time. Some speculate that he may not have built it, but lowered wards that were keeping it hidden.”

“Could the walls have been pre-Cataclysm?” a student asked.

“It’s difficult to determine,” she said. “Preservation and warding spells could have maintained the white cliffs in relatively good condition from that time period, if they weren’t catastrophically damaged during the Cataclysm. But how was such a structure created in the first place? We would find it difficult to do today, even if we had a hundred of Archmage Zard. So either humans didn’t create it, or we created it when we still knew how to do such things.”

She went through the same thread-pulling process with half a dozen other students. Some had better questions than others, but she took them all seriously. Near the end of class, she said, “We’ve had some good discussion. But there’s one last thread I was hoping one of you would pick out, one that feeds all the way through the Cataclysm into our side of history. Anyone?”

She looked around, her eyes finally settling on Sebastien’s face. “Siverling. Make a guess.”

Sebastien was silent for a few seconds, then said, “The Titans? They were long-lived, and by all accounts survived the Cataclysm. So they should have known what came before. Supposedly they were intelligent. Enough to go insane, anyway. And incredibly powerful. So…did they have anything to say about the time before, or what caused the Cataclysm? And, if I remember correctly, the Titans were all dead just a couple thousand years later. How did that happen?”

“Indeed, that is the query I was looking for. The Titans were enormous, and enormously powerful. Accounts from the time say that they were omnivores in the truest sense of the word. They ate anything and everything, from people to smallish mountains.”

Ilma turned and drew two stick figures on the chalkboard. One came to a little below mid-shin on the other. “This is the scale of a Titan compared to a human. But even if you consider the extreme caloric requirements of a being that large, if accounts from those living during that time are to be trusted, their appetites were still outsized. While we should be skeptical of any who claimed to have come into contact with a Titan and escaped uneaten, their ravenous nature is agreed on universally. Scholars have suggested that a large part of what they ate went toward maintaining the structural integrity of their impractically large bodies, which should otherwise have been unable to function, and that everything they ate was in fact being used as a Sacrifice for their particular brand of magic. Some even believed them to be gods. They did not seem to age, and they had strange, terrible powers.”

Ilma stared at the stick figure on the board for a moment, then turned back to face the students. “But all their power didn’t keep them from insanity. Some were beyond communication from the beginning of our records, but there are claims of reasonable Titans living in the wilderness, nonaggressive unless threatened. They fought each other sometimes, if they happened to cross paths. Perhaps the Titans were simply too dangerous, too strange and volatile and hungry, for anyone to question or get coherent answers from. Perhaps they refused to speak of the time before. Or perhaps they’d been damaged somehow, their minds or their magic broken. In any case, the last of these strange and terrible beings died long ago, and we are left with many questions but few answers.”

As if she’d timed it perfectly, the bell rang to signal the end of the class period.

Sebastien stayed in her seat for a few minutes, waiting for Ilma to say something else, to give a hint at what she, an expert, believed.

But Ilma was silent as the rest of the students filtered out.

Sebastien lingered, approaching Professor Ilma instead of heading for Sympathetic Science classroom and Professor Pecanty. “What happened to the Titans, Professor?” she asked.

“They died,” the blue-tinted woman said with a faint smile.

“But how? Did they kill each other? Did the mortal races band together and kill them? Did they starve, or was their magic unable to sustain them?”

“There are quite a few different accounts, many of them contradictory. I can suggest a reading list if you’re curious about the topic.” Ilma wiped away the stick figures drawn in chalk and scribbled a list on a piece of paper.

When Sebastien took the list, she saw that it was accompanied by a slip for one University contribution point. “Thank you,” she said, looking up at the older woman.

“You’ll be late if you don’t hurry,” Ilma said.

Sebastien left quickly. As she strode through the slightly-curved hallways of the Citadel, she folded and tucked the point slip and the reading list into one of her pockets. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said to herself. ‘I don’t understand at all. If Ilma had some point for that lesson beyond confirming how little historians have been able to verify, and how frustrating a job that must be, I don’t know what it was. The space of things I still have to learn is the size of a vast ocean, wide and deep enough that no light can reach the bottom.’

Rather than press down on her, the sense of this ocean surrounding her on all sides made her feel weightless, buoyant. ‘It’s all at my fingertips, just waiting for me to grasp it.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note 1/8/21:

I'm taking a second round of submissions for my new Typo Hunting Team! I'm looking for people with a keen eye for spelling and grammar to read through a pre-release version of Book 1 (Chapters 0-37) and note any errors that have slipped past the professionally edited text, or which I might have accidentally inserted while fixing other problems.

As a thank you, people who join the team and complete the assignment will be getting a paperback copy of the published book, a signed bookplate sticker (it goes in the front of your book just like an author signature), and a $20 e-gift card to the bookstore of your choice.

If you're interested, you can sign up here: https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/a1y2t4

Next Chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-29-kindred-spirits/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 29 - Kindred Spirits

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 27, Friday 5:30 p.m.

Sebastien’s free time over the next couple days was spent engrossed in study and practice. She felt she was progressing well with school-related learning, but hadn’t made much progress finding a solution to her sleep problems. Or, to put it another way, her time and energy problems. Books talked about how the Will could be trained through practice, just like any other muscle, and thus become harder to exhaust. They showed spells that were supposed to help get a full night’s restful sleep, none of which actually worked to let her sleep through the night without nightmares, at least not at the strength she could cast them.

There were spells that could force someone to stay awake, but the only one that lasted longer than a few hours and didn’t require the sleep debt to be made up later was a curse. It kept the victim from sleeping, and for the first few days was seemingly without side-effects. But as that wakefulness went on, it led to hallucinations, extreme paranoia, and, eventually, death. Even if she had been willing to try it, it was only talked about in general terms. Apparently the University didn’t want its early term students getting their hands on curses that could kill someone.

There were spells to promote wakefulness more gently, but they couldn’t avert Will-strain, and led to energy debts and fatigue after they wore off. She might as well keep pumping wakefulness magic into high-quality coffee.

With so much other work to get through and no progress on increasing the resources she had to devote to everything, she made little headway in learning about whatever spell might be encrypting the stolen text her amulet had come from. There were so many things she wanted to do outside her schoolwork, and she just couldn’t. Altogether, she felt herself begin to wear down both mentally and physically, and grew frustrated to the point of snapping at her fellow students when they interrupted her study.

When a particularly rowdy group of students stomped their way over to the section of the library where she was trying to finish an essay for one of her classes—fast enough that she would still have time for her Practical Casting exercises and to also read a book assigned in another class—she could feel little tingles of electrical anger tightening the muscles in her back and shoulders.

The library was meant to be a place of quiet and study. Just because she wasn’t locked away inside one of the reserved rooms didn’t mean she deserved to be subjected to their brain-grating distraction. ‘Don’t they have any work of their own to do?’

They settled nearby and shortly afterward burst out into laughter. One of the boys took out a gaudily pink, fluffy feather that floated around under his direction and attacked a girl.

She squealed and tried to escape the ticklishness of what had to be a prank artifact by running in circles around the table, shrieking and giggling.

Sebastien’s eye twitched.

One of the other boys stepped up gallantly to protect her, but then ended up being “weak to tickle damage.” They only got louder, encouragement and jokes mixing with the laughter.

When the girl ran past Sebastien to hide behind her chair, using her like a human shield against the trailing feather, Sebastien snapped.

She stood up, slamming her hands down on the table hard enough to make its contents jump.

The group stilled and went quiet, turning toward her. The feather froze in mid-air, then sank to the ground like a dog trying to escape the notice of its master after doing something wrong.

The door to one of the nearby reserved rooms opened. Their student liaison, Newton, stood in the doorway and waved the boy he’d been tutoring out, one eye on Sebastien.

It was too late for Sebastien to stop herself, though, the anger already crackling out in clipped words. Once she was going, she never could rein herself in.

“Shut. Up,” she growled, then rounded on the group, blindly packing her things as she spoke, each movement sharply punctuating her words. “I don’t have the energy to pretend to tolerate you nostril-offending, dull-witted pulps of inanity today. Can’t you see that people are trying to have real thoughts around you? You may not be able to have any of your own, but I assure you the rest of us would appreciate it if you stopped lowering the average intelligence of the room with your deafening presence.” Shoving the last book into her satchel, she gave them a glare, slung the bag over her shoulder, and strode off amidst the suddenly resounding silence.

She blew out of the library and chose the direction with the least number of students clogging the way, which led her past the cafeteria, the dorms, and into the east side of the grounds, which she hadn’t explored since orientation.

She stomped over the cobblestone path winding through the trees, past the Archmage’s High Tower and the occasional professor’s house until the cultivated forest and grass petered out and then the white cliffs broke away.

Her footsteps slowed. She moved to looked out over the east edge of the cliffs. Below roiled the Charybdis Gulf, which ran through Gilbratha’s east edge from north to south, separating the Lilies and the Crown Families who lived there from the rest of the city.

Sebastien pressed her arms closer to her body to ward off the stiff wind as she gazed down at the choppy grey waves below. There were a few small boats braving the waters further south—fisherfolk risking the magical sea beasts and the more mundane, but still dangerous, carnivorous marine animals.

A few rays of light broke through the thick clouds above, refracting off the mist in the air and hitting the water, which glowed green like a cut emerald. The sight, so far removed from her own struggles, helped to calm her.

Sebastien had been standing there for only a couple minutes when footsteps approached behind her.

Newton had his hands in his pockets and his chin tucked into a thick scarf. He moved to stand beside her with nothing more than a slight nod of greeting.

‘Am I going to be punished for what I said?’ she wondered. ‘Should I apologize first? It might help reduce my sentence.’ The thought was distasteful, and she let the silence stretch out between them instead.

“You’re not like a lot of the students here,” Newton eventually said.

It hadn’t been what she was expecting, and she raised her eyebrows, turning toward him.

He kept looking out over the water. “The others, those rich kids with Family backing…this place isn’t special to them. Learning at the University is their birthright, the magical is mundane. They don’t worry about learning everything they can, or about performing well enough to get and keep a good Apprenticeship. They aren’t trying to stand out, hoping to stay on at the University as a student aid once the first three terms are up, just so they’ll have enough gold to pay for classes. Once they leave here, most of them will only need to use what they learned if they want to. If not, there’s always the Edictum Council, or an advisory position over one of the businesses their Family owns. They can even retire to their lands outside of Gilbratha. Being here doesn’t mean the same thing to them as it does to us,” Newton said.

“And what does it mean to us?”

“Opportunity. The type you only get once in a lifetime, and that’s worth enough you’d sacrifice almost anything for it.”

Sebastien felt herself pale, but tried to keep her expression neutral. ‘Is he hinting that he knows about how I got here?’

Newton nodded. “I’ve noticed, Sebastien. After all, it takes one to know one.”

‘What?’ she thought. Aloud, she said, “What?”

“I noticed the wonder on your face when we toured the place during Orientation. You’re dressed just as finely as them, you carry yourself like you belong more than they do, and no one can deny you have the intelligence to be here.” Newton threw his hands up. “Hells, you even somehow managed to get Thaddeus Lacer to acknowledge you!” He shook his head, then. “But the truth is obvious to me. We’re the same. I doubt you ever had finery like you’re wearing now before you came to the University. You didn’t take trips to Paneth every autumn and get a miniature gryphon for your tenth birthday. You didn’t have magical artifacts in every room and servants to take care of everything the magic didn’t.”

Sebastien carefully kept her hand from creeping toward her Conduit as he spoke. She didn’t want to push the situation further into disaster by overreacting. ‘Being poor isn’t a crime. Even lying about your background isn’t. As long as he doesn’t know about Siobhan, everything is salvageable.’

“I had that same look of wonder on my face when I came to the University. The one those rich kids don’t have because they’re blind to the wonder of it, jaded by the opulence and opportunity they’ve grown up in. That’s why I understand how frustrating it can be—pinching every copper, studying till you dream of writing essays and practice casting in your sleep, and watching the people around you who have it so much easier…”

He gritted his teeth, then shook his head, as if to dislodge the frustration. “Well, you just have to learn to let it go. I’ve got a little trick for it. My Grams taught me when I was a child. She was helping me calm myself down when I was panicking during a thunderstorm, but it’s good for anger too. It’s an esoteric spell, the first bit of magic I ever did, and one of the few real spells my family had.”

Slowly, making sure Sebastien was watching, he touched his middle fingers to his thumbs, creating a Circle from his hands. He pressed the Circle up against his diaphragm and let out a deep humming, “Ohhhmm,” drawing the sound out till the vibrations seemed to ripple against each other, enriching the note.

Sebastien blinked, absorbing it even as she wondered what in the hells was going on. Teaching a family spell to an outsider was usually a pretty big deal.

The tension she hadn’t even realized was tugging at the muscles around Newton’s eyes and shoulders released, and after repeating the humming for a couple deep breaths, he dropped his hands and explained the spell to her, then added, “Being a commoner is nothing to be ashamed of, Sebastien.”

Sebastien opened her mouth, not quite sure what she was going to say, but Newton waved her words away.

“Don’t worry, it’s not obvious. And maybe the Siverlings aren’t technically commoners, but what’s a name if you’re too poor to back it up? I’m not going to give away your secret. What I’m trying to say is, you deserve to be here just as much as any of them. More, even. Don’t let them push you till you cause trouble for yourself. Thaumaturges need their pride, but we also have to know when to stay coolheaded. I’ll try to have your back, but if you find it all becoming too much, calm yourself.”

“We’re the same. Commoners trying to fit in at the University,” she said slowly, making sure she understood.

He laughed sharply. “Well, it’s a little more obvious for me than you.” He gestured to his clothes. “I haven’t had a new set of clothes since first term, and I spend every spare hour with student liaison business or tutoring people too stupid or lazy to learn on their own, just trying to make enough gold to pay for my next term. I use my contribution points to pay for classes, and the only reason I’m not still in the dorms with the rest of you is because the student liaison job comes with a separate room.”

Sebastien pondered the correct response to this, still reeling a little from the rapid shift in emotions and the relief now filling her. “Thank you,” she said finally. “For the spell…and the advice.”

Newton clapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it, friend. Well, maybe someday when you’ve made something of yourself, you’ll remember me. My Journeyman certification will be based on pure skill and determination, and I’m not picky about my field of work.”

“You want to…work for me after graduation?” She felt like Newton kept throwing conversational blows she hadn’t seen coming.

“As long as the job pays at least market wage for a Journeyman. It’d be better than working for one of the Crowns, or some rich Master who makes me do all the work while taking the credit for himself!” Newton said with a laugh. “Of course, if you’re going into the army, I have to give advance warning that I’m only interested in administrative jobs.”

Sebastien nodded stiffly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She understood his reasoning in teaching her the spell, at least. ‘A bribe couched in overtures of friendship. He’s making “connections.” Too bad he doesn’t realize that Sebastien Siverling doesn’t actually exist.’

Newton shoved his hands back into his pockets, whistling as they turned and walked back to the University.

“I do regret some of the things I said to them,” she offered.

He nodded slowly, still whistling quietly.

“I came up with better insults while I was walking away,” she explained.

His head jerked to a stop mid-nod and the simple, meandering tune died on his lips. After a moment of shock, he burst out laughing.

That night, Sebastien tried out the spell Newton had taught her. It forcefully calmed her heartbeat to match her breaths and smoothed muscles she hadn’t noticed were tense. The longer she drew the deep hums out, the farther into the calm state it stretched her body, like straightening a spring.

She started to snap back as soon as the sound stopped—the relaxation was unnatural, based on force rather than a cessation of the triggers that had caused the negative response—but as she kept the spell going with breath after breath, her body settled into the new state. She didn’t become relaxed, exactly, but she felt calm, in control. As if the state of her mind when casting magic had spread to the rest of her body. She didn’t dislike it, but she wondered how much use she would get out of it. ‘Would I remember to stop and cast it in the heat of the moment? And if I do, would control over my body be enough to override my anger?’

If she was entirely honest with herself, she enjoyed giving the occasional verbal abuse to the deserving. If there weren’t sometimes consequences, she would never regret it at all. ‘Well, perhaps it could be useful to get back to sleep after I wake too early,’ she thought as she slipped into sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, she woke suddenly, and at first didn’t realize what had roused her. She hadn’t been dreaming.

Her wrist hurt, as if she’d dropped a dot of hot wax or a still-burning coal on it. With sleepy fingers, she probed at the pain, and immediately felt the too-cold bead of metal pressed against her skin.

‘Dryden has triggered the ward on my bracelet.’

Her heart seemed to stop beating for an instant, and then it crashed against her chest with a surge of fiery adrenaline. ‘I’ve been caught.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note 1/14/21:

I wrote a short prologue to this story, which has been added to chapter 1. It’s not critical to understanding the story at this point, but my editor suggested it to help ground new readers in the world and initial conflicts.

It also contains a couple important hints that might not be clear for a while. ;)

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-30-a-rather-poor-rescue/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 30 - (A Rather Poor) Rescue

Siobhan

Month 11, Day 28, Saturday 4:30 a.m.

Sebastien bolted upright before she could stop herself, but then froze, opening her mouth to breathe so that her panicked gasps would be less audible.

She slid off her bed, pressing her feet to the cold stone floor with careful, deliberate movements. Turning to the bed, she cast the spell to disintegrate fallen hairs or other remnants from her body. Now would be the worst possible time to neglect that safety measure.

‘How did they find me?’ she wondered frantically. Still, that answer wasn’t the most important thing at the moment. ‘I have to escape.’

She moved to the chest at the foot of her bed and pulled out her things, most of which she kept organized within her luggage bags, and so required very little preparation to simply pick up and leave.

She dressed as quickly as possible, slung her school satchel over her shoulder, and slipped from the room, carrying both her boots and her luggage. She put her boots on when she reached the hall, then picked up one bag in either arm and hurried out of the dorm building. Outside, the wind had picked up, clearing away the night fog and whipping hair into her face.

Her student token bounced against her chest beside her warded medallion and the transmutation amulet. ‘Should I get rid of the token? They might be able to track it.’ She decided to ditch it after she had escaped the grounds. It would be fastest to go down through the tubes, but she didn’t want to do so without anything to slow her descent, not again, and she needed the student token for the tube system’s magic to recognize her.

She was panting by the time she reached the glass tubes, but Fekten’s training in Defensive Magics had deepened the well of physical energy she had to draw on, and she didn’t slow. Her bags went in first, and then her legs, and she was off.

Only then did she have the horrible thought that her student token may have been compromised, and the tubes would trap her within till the authorities reached her—though she didn’t know if such a thing was actually possible. To her great relief, the tubes worked as normal, simply setting her and her luggage down on the bouncy surface below.

She grabbed both bags and was struggling off the absorbent landing pad toward the street when the sound of a horse’s hooves clopping to intercept her cut through the wind. She dropped the larger bag, the one with her clothes and more unimportant belongings, and turned to sprint away, when Dryden’s familiar voice called, “It’s me! Get on the horse, it’s an emergency.”

She stopped running and turned as he drew the panting beast up beside her.

His eyes flicked between the bag in her arms and the one she had dropped. “They haven’t discovered you, but I had no other way to get your attention. Stash your bags somewhere no one will find them and climb up behind me. There’s no time to wait, lives are at stake.”

His urgent, low voice cut through the fog of panic in her mind. She ran back, picked up the bag she had dropped, and then found a half-broken wooden crate in a nearby alley to stash her things underneath. She took off her student token, too, just to be safe, leaving only her school satchel and her clothes on her body. “What’s going on?” she asked, panting as she climbed up behind him on the horse. It was saddled for one, which made it less than comfortable.

“The Morrows attacked a building of mine, downhill. Workers were inside, on an early shift. My people called for one of the emergency response teams, but the Morrows were prepared for that,” he said, pushing the poor horse hard. He tossed a bundle of cloth back to her. “Wear your cloak and change forms. The Morrows are trying to take the building down around the workers’ ears. We have injured, maybe dead, and the emergency response team cannot get in to help. The other two teams are being roused from their homes, but it may be too late by the time they arrive. Katerin sent me a message, and I triggered your ward immediately. I hope you will forgive me for the fright.”

She tossed the red-trimmed cloak around her shoulders, pulled the hood down, and pressed a hand to her chest to settle the stolen artifact against her skin. With a tingle, her body shifted, and her skin darkened like the blush of a desert rose. “Why did you trigger my ward? What is it that you think I can do about this?” The sound of her old voice was almost startling, and she clutched at Dryden’s waist to keep herself steady as the horse’s muscles undulated under her. Its hoofbeats thundered off the stone around them, distorted by the wind, and the shadows were barely pushed back by increasingly sparse street lamps.

“Katerin and the reinforcement teams are being deliberately delayed. I have no other options. They have magic-users, Siobhan. And you know how to heal.”

She gaped at the back of his head. “What? I told you, I don’t know any battle magic! And I can only heal small wounds! You would be better off transporting the injured to a healer!”

“I will do the fighting. I fear it may be too late to reach the healers, especially if we cannot break the Morrows’ siege quickly.” He turned his head slightly, to see her out of the corner of his eye. “The workers are innocent, Siobhan. They’re in desperate need of help. Will you not at least try? You will be paid.” His voice broke a little on those last words.

Tingles went up her spine as her back muscles clenched too hard for comfort. She considered refusing, demanding that he stop and let her return to the University, but the words wouldn’t leave her mouth. ‘I am already on my way there,’ she thought with a kind of dry resignedness. Her memory flashed to the moment she’d pressed her bloody thumb against the magical agreement with Katerin. ‘And I cannot refuse repayment in favors unless they are morally objectionable. Not unless I want to bear the consequences.’ The thought of releasing her blood for Katerin to use against her led to a shudder that wasn’t just because of the cold. Katerin was kind, but she was in no way soft. Siobhan belonged to the Verdant Stag.

“I just want to make sure you are aware, fully aware, that I am not a licensed healer, and I’m not just saying that. I don’t know what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be the first one you go to in an emergency. I should be the absolute last resort.”

“You are.” He paused. “I don’t know what you’re imagining, but I don’t have some sort of secret underground battlefield-healer on retainer. Any legal healer won’t come to a still-ongoing gang fight. I hope—I hope you aren’t needed. And I hope that if you are, you can be the stopgap, to buy just enough time till a real healer can be had. Emergency response, right?”

‘What does it say about me, that I’m rushing into this when a real healer would refuse?’ Still, she didn’t ask him to turn back or let her off.

By the time they arrived, the frigid winds, now carrying the scent of lightning mixed with a hint of feces, were strong enough to distort the sounds of fighting. Even so, Siobhan could see a glow that pulsed artificially from a couple city blocks away, far enough for them to slow the horse.

Dryden pulled out a battle wand from inside his vest, and they dismounted. He led the horse over to the sidewalk, loosely tying it to a post in front of a building. Then he pressed himself close to the side of the buildings and approached the glow of magic and the screams.

Siobhan made sure her hood was pulled fully down over her face and followed after him. When they got to the corner, she crouched down, peering out into the cross street.

The warehouse under attack stood across the street to their left and about a block away. It had large, many-paned windows running along all three sides she could see, more than a few of which were broken, and the light crystals shining within showed a large barricade the workers must have set up to protect them from spell attacks.

The entire building was vibrating, whatever spell was causing the effect pulsing like an ocean wave. As she watched, a couple more windows broke, their glass falling away and shattering against the ground.

On the street before the warehouse, four people, whose shoulders bore the vibrant green antlers of the Verdant Stag, were crouched behind another makeshift barrier. It had the layered, poured-mud quality of a liquid stone potion, which expanded and hardened when it touched air, and could be used for emergency walls in situations like this. One of the team lay flat, moaning in pain and clutching at his leg, while the other three occasionally popped their heads out and shot up the street.

Their target, almost directly in front of the warehouse, was a group of seven people, each wearing a red bandanna around their neck or arm. They had their own barrier, a glowing half sphere that rose from seven bricklike objects laid on the ground around their group.

One edge of their glowing barrier spell touched the corner of the warehouse, and one of their number was crouched at that edge, casting the spell that was shaking the building on its foundation. The sound of buried thunder, rattling metal, and breaking glass grew louder as the spellcaster continued.

The Morrows’ barrier absorbed incoming spells, yet allowed spells shot from within to exit, meaning they had the clear advantage in both numbers and power. A couple of them had battle wands of their own, which they shot at the emergency response team whenever they saw an opportunity. Magicians, who were often not true spellcasters at all, but used artifacts and tools to do their magic, were often derided, but they could be as dangerous as any other thaumaturge.

Dryden withdrew his head from around the corner and turned to her. “The barrier. What do you know about it? Can you take it down?”

She shook her head. “I’m no expert, but spell-barrier wards always have a weakness. They have to be set up to block specific spells, so there’s always something that can get through them. Alternatively, you can overpower them with brute force, or use a counter-spell specifically to break the barrier. The problem is, I don’t know the counter-spell, and I really doubt I have enough power to brute force it, especially without getting close enough to touch it.”

“And a spell that can get through it? One it wasn’t created to block?”

Siobhan thought frantically, running through her repertoire of knowledge. She knew more than she had the last time she’d been in such a desperate situation, attempting to escape from the coppers chasing her, but she still wasn’t versed in battle magic, and her repository of spells wasn’t much larger than it had been, though it had a better foundation. All that was coming to mind were the spells she had been doing constantly for Professor Lacer.

The idea caught her. She poked her head out again, watching the wind push debris across the cobblestones. She pulled her head back and looked around. “Is there a way onto the roof from here?”

“I believe there’s one in the alley near here. I’ll check.” Dryden stood up and ran back the way they had come.

Meanwhile, Siobhan gouged her nails into the wooden paneling that divided the closest window into little panes. She broke a couple nails, but was able to break the wood, too, getting at the glass held within. She carefully wriggled the pane out of its bindings, then settled it on the ground and pulled an oil pastel out of a pocket. She drew a Circle and the glyphs for “line,” “movement,” and “circle” on the glass.

Then, she drew over a dozen more Circles on the other panes of glass in the window, with pentagons for each, along with the glyphs for “force,” “compression,” and “sphere.” From a case in her bag, she took a very small oil lantern, which she had found useful more than a few times over the years when the weather was not conducive to an open flame. The spell array to spark the wick was carved on the bottom of the lantern, and once she got her Conduit out of her vest pocket, only took a small push of Will.

Dryden returned, dropping down beside her. “There’s an old building about a block east with a ladder up the back. Will that work?”

“As long as it’s close enough for me to target the Morrows from. Now be quiet. I need to concentrate.” With the energy from the lantern, which she held up into the Circles she had drawn on the window glass, she crushed each pane into a vaguely ball-like shape of jagged, cutting edges. The crisp shattering and brittle crunching was loud enough to temporarily overpower the howling of the wind. A little dribble of honey helped the balls keep their shape.

She turned the first, still whole, pane of glass upside down, being careful not to smudge the Circle. She mixed more honey with adhel juice and smeared it on her left palm, creating a strong, sticky film. She pressed that hand to the pane of glass, and was pleased when it stuck without effort.

Now, with a portable spell array, she held her left hand over the balls of shattered glass and activated the spell array drawn on the glass pane. When she lifted her hand, both the pane and the glass spheres came with it. She held the pane up like a waitress carrying a tray full of food, stood, and tucked away the rest of her supplies with her free hand. “Alright. Lead the way.”

Climbing the ladder with only one hand was decidedly more difficult than she had anticipated, and she had to hold her Conduit in her mouth and hook the next rung up with her chin a couple times while she released her grip with her free hand. Every gust of wind set her heart to pounding, and she remembered belatedly that she really had no love for heights, but by that time it was much too late to give up.

The ladder ended at the roof, which held a gazebo-like structure that had at one time likely housed a bell, but was now empty. The wind was even stronger up high, tugging at her like little grasping fingers as she tried to navigate the steep, shingled surface.

Dryden wrapped an arm around her waist to help stabilize her, but ended up fairly carrying her as they scrambled up and into the protection of the empty bell tower.

From inside, she saw that the stone stairs leading down into the building had half broken and crumbled away, which was probably the reason for the ladder in the first place. She carefully edged around the opening to the broken stairs and looked out over the street below from the far side.

Lightning flashed, so bright that the whole world looked as it did in daylight for a single instant. Thunder followed close behind it.

Dryden reached into his cloak and pulled out a mask. It was smooth and white, with two round holes for the eyes. When he put it on, something happened, a sort of gathering darkness that seeped out around the edges in tendrils and settled behind the empty eyeholes, obscuring the man beneath.

Siobhan couldn’t help her grin. “Impressive.”

He waved a hand at her, a slight flourish in the movement. “Please, sorceress. Upstage me.” He turned his head meaningfully toward the Morrows below.

Most of the glass had fallen from the warehouse windows by that point, and the walls were groaning under the pressure of the vibrations the Morrow caster was creating. A man screamed inside the building, and Siobhan knew there was no time to waste.

She palmed her Conduit, chose one of the balls stuck to the glass pane, and drew it to the center. She wished she had a beast core to pull energy from, but could only take her lantern from where she’d hastily stuffed it in a pocket and hold it within the sphere of influence created by the Circle.

Her hand was within the sphere of influence as well, and she reminded herself with some trepidation not to give herself frostbite.

She had practiced this spell for many hours, till she could do it half asleep and at a moment’s notice. It was only slightly harder to do it now, with adrenaline rushing through her body and the wind tearing at her so hard she had to crouch slightly to avoid being knocked over. It took a handful of seconds to get the glass ball rotating so fast its jagged edges were shrieking against the pane underneath. It was easy, with such a small ball, and no sand to slow it. The hardest part was actually keeping it from shooting off under the force of its speed.

The spell array glowed slightly as she poured on more power, not totally efficient even with all her practice. The Word was too simple.

When she released the ball, it shot forward faster than she could see, exploding against the ground below, just to the side of the Morrows’ barrier.

Small glass shards shot out in every direction, and the gang member nearest the impact screamed and stumbled back. Their barrier didn’t block solid objects, which Siobhan had noticed while watching the leaves and debris the wind sent down the street entering and exiting with no problem.

Siobhan frowned. ‘Aiming is harder than I anticipated.’

The emergency response team, which was to their right, now, took the opportunity to fire some spells of their own.

Siobhan spun up her next shot and managed to aim this one into the barrier sphere. Once again, the glass hit the street and exploded outward.

One of the Morrows turned in their direction, but didn’t look up until another flash of lightning illuminated the street. Then, he pointed up at Siobhan and Dryden with a shout to his fellows.

The Morrow sorcerer crouching at the edge of the group turned to look, then screamed at her teammates, “Keep her off me!”

Siobhan was already spinning up another glass ball. A brief glow from her spell array, enough speed to start a screeching that even the wind couldn’t cover, and release.

The man who had pointed them out went down, scrabbling at his abdomen dramatically.

She’d managed to hit him mostly from luck, as the wind had slightly changed the angle of her shot. By the time he started to scream, she’d already shot again. “How long till the backup teams get here?” she said, shouting to be heard over the wind.

“Katerin is on it,” Dryden screamed back. “They’ll be here soon!” He fiddled with the settings on the battle wand he still held, then leaned forward and fired off a concussive blast, aiming at the ground at the edge of the barrier rather than directly at it. It barely cracked the cobblestones, but it was enough to make a couple of their opponents flinch and stumble, so he repeated it.

“Soon?” Siobhan repeated unappreciatively, peering through the broken windows of the warehouse, trying to see the workers within from her better vantage point. Past the barrier of boxes and bags of what seemed to be dirt, she saw four people hiding. They had a couple small wounds, but had bandaged up the more serious with torn strips of clothing.

Apart from them, from the right edge of the building nearest the street, another worker’s head popped up and then ducked back down again, but the woman was visible for long enough for Siobhan to catch her expression of fear and the blood smeared across her cheek.

There was a loud crack, the sound of an impact, and then part of the warehouse’s roof crumbled and fell in. The screams from within were almost drowned out by the sound of the building’s partial collapse.

Siobhan’s shoulders straightened in response. She realized she’d been holding her breath and took a dizzy gulp of air. “I guess I had better finish this myself, and quickly,” she murmured, knowing her words wouldn’t be audible.

She sent off another shot, hitting one of the Morrows who was attempting to shield the female sorcerer. “Two down,” she said.

One of the Morrows sent a bright orange bolt shooting from their wand straight toward her. She stumbled to the side to avoid the spell, and for a moment thought it was going to hit her, but instead it impacted the stone of the bell-tower ceiling behind her with a sizzle and whoosh of heat.

She paused a moment, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it pushing against her ribs. The warding medallion her grandfather had given her was slightly cold against her chest, indicating that one of the protective spells had activated, probably changing the trajectory of the attack just enough to save her. She resisted the urge to turn her head and look at the place where the spell had hit. Instead, she cast the sphere-spinning spell again and launched the next glass projectile.

Dryden and Siobhan continued to dodge the spells shot back at them, though not without close calls. She nearly cracked her spell array when she was forced to drop to her chest to avoid another orange bolt, but escaped merely with the breath knocked out of her. Her pounding heart had taken her past lightheadedness and into the kind of focus that expanded her sensory intake rather than narrowed it.

She was low on ammunition by the time she managed to hit the third Morrow directly, the glass ball ripping into his shin. It was enough to take the man off his feet, and at that point, the three magicians who hadn’t been hit directly grew less focused on recklessly returning fire. One of them brought out a light crystal contained in a lensed lantern and shined a bright beam of light toward the rooftop.

‘That is actually pretty clever.’ She squinted against the light. ‘With my vision impaired, I’m less likely to hit them.’

Instead of using the opportunity to attack her, however, two of them dropped to the ground and began tending to their downed comrades.

She caught a glimpse of the puddles of blood spreading out on the cobblestones and swallowed hard. The glass shards were more effective than she had anticipated—or intended. She hesitated before launching the next one. Her aim was far from perfect, and when the glass smashed into the sidewalk close to the female sorcerer’s side, Siobhan wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed.

The woman screamed and fell over onto her left side, clutching at her right arm.

Siobhan spun up her last glass ball, waiting and watching. She didn’t want to waste her last shot.

The woman’s screams quieted, and she turned to face Siobhan, clumsily drawing a new Circle on the ground with her left hand. Presumably, it would be a ward to protect against Siobhan’s attacks.

Siobhan wasn’t sure if she should target the female sorcerer again to keep her from completing the new array, or shoot at one of the others. The woman would only be able to hold one spell at a time, so as long as she was warding against being shot, she couldn’t continue to attack the warehouse.

That was when a brick came flying out of one of the broken warehouse windows and clipped the gang member holding the lantern in the shoulder. The man stumbled and fell, dropping his wand. Another brick followed quickly after, and the magicians, including one of those she had shot directly earlier, turned their attention once again to the warehouse, while the sorcerer drew out her spell in blood-splattered chalk.

Dryden yelled a warning to the workers within that was lost in the howl of the oncoming storm.

Before the Morrows could retaliate for the bricks, a bolt of light cut through the darkness to her left, from further up the street, drawing their attention.

The shot had come from a third group of people who were running down the street toward them. In another bolt of lightning, Siobhan caught a glimpse of blood-red hair and the spring-green antlers of the Verdant Stag among the new arrivals, and felt her knees go weak in relief.

Katerin had arrived with the reinforcements.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-31-arriving-to-class-naked/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

A Conjuring of Ravens Pre-Order

Hey guys! There’s been no chapter this past week because I’m dealing with hosting migration for my website as well as getting the pre-order for the first Practical Guide to Sorcery book up in bookstores.

If you’d like to support me and this story, buy a copy of the ebook for yourself! It’s currently available as a pre-order on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBooks. More bookstores (and the paperback version!) coming soon.

During the pre-order period the ebook is only $2.99, but that price will go up to the standard price of $4.99 after launch week!

Get it here (Universal Book Link) for 40% off : https://books2read.com/u/m0wPEl

As always, thank you guys for your support. I’m working hard to get everything done, and will be back this coming Thursday with the regularly scheduled chapter of PGTS.

Happy Reading,

Azalea

A note from AzaleaEllis

Get it here (Universal Book Link): https://books2read.com/u/m0wPEl

Chapter 31 - Arriving to Class Naked

Siobhan

Month 11, Day 28, Saturday 4:55 a.m.

Spells lit up the night, a barrage of force and magical effects traded between the Verdant Stags’ reinforcements and the Morrows in front of the half-destroyed warehouse.

“They’ll handle this,” Dryden screamed in her ear, clutching her shoulder. “We need to get into the building!”

With a nod, she turned and looked for a way to get down. Going back the way they had come would take a long time. They couldn’t jump down from the roof, either, unless they wanted to break a bone.

“I have a potion of feather-fall!” Dryden yelled, pointing down the broken staircase that led into the building below.

She understood his plan immediately. “Just the one?” When he nodded, she tucked her lantern and Conduit back into a pocket and held out her hand expectantly. “We can split it.”

Dryden didn’t hesitate. They each took a swallow from the small vial he pulled from his pocket, then moved to the stairwell.

With her mind on potions, Siobhan realized she might have a few useful ones of her own. She pulled the potion of moonlight sizzle out of her satchel, shaking it quickly and holding it above her head to light their way down the stairwell. They had to jump over sections of broken steps a few times, but the half dose of feather-fall was enough to partially mitigate the effects of gravity and allow them to descend safely.

When they reached the ground, Dryden led them through the obstacle course-like remains of furniture and rat carcasses littering the ground. They unlatched the front door from the inside, and Dryden poked his head out. He pulled back and turned to her, the eyeholes in his mask bleeding darkness. “The Morrows are running.”

“That’s good. Now we just need to get help to the injured workers.” She fingered the Conduit in her pocket, reassured by its familiar weight and feel. “But the warehouse doors must be locked, right?”

“I would assume so.”

“So we go in through the windows. The glass is broken out of them already. You first. I don’t want a brick to come flying at my head. They should recognize the mask, correct?” She waved vaguely to his face.

He let out a short, sharp laugh, as if surprised. “Yes.”

She nodded at him, then waved her hand impatiently. “Hurry up, then. We don’t have time to lose!”

With one last peek out the door, he dashed across the street.

She followed, her cloak whipping around and tugging at her with the force of the wind. She tucked the hand still attached to the glass pane to her side underneath her cloak to avoid it getting caught or accidentally smashing it against something. The mixture of honey and adhel juice was too strong an adhesive to remove the glass easily, and there was no time for her to work an oil mixture into it until it released the skin of her palm bit by bit.

As soon as Dryden began to climb through a broken window in the side alley, two workers rushed out from behind their makeshift barrier to help haul him through.

Of course, as soon as they caught sight of the mask, they recoiled.

“It’s okay,” Dryden assured them. “We’re here to help, I promise.”

She followed, though none of the workers helped her, even though her left hand was still out of commission.

“Wounded? Is anyone hurt?” Dryden asked, looking around urgently.

“Jameson, sir,” said one of the men who had stepped forward to help him through the window, darting little glances at Dryden’s mask. He was a large man, so much so that his shirt seams strained around his shoulders.

Siobhan mentally dubbed him Mr. Shoulders.

“Jameson was standing by the window when they first came up. They got him with a slicer, at the base of the neck.” Mr. Shoulders motioned behind the barrier, and Siobhan started moving.

The woman who had poked her head up from the corner called out, “Elba’s broke ‘is arm, but ‘e’s alright. But Cooper…Cooper…”

Siobhan stepped around the barrier and saw what they meant.

One man, pale to the point of blueness, had a friend pressing what looked like a blood-soaked shirt to his neck.

‘That would be Jameson.’

A couple meters away, another man lay underneath the jagged end of a huge piece of wood.

Her stomach roiled as the smell swept past her, carried on the wind whistling through the windows.

The support beam had been holding up the roof. She remembered the sound it made when it broke, the way the people inside had screamed as the roof collapsed inward.

It seemed that the sharp end had punched down onto Cooper, before the rest of the beam fell on top of him.

Mr. Shoulders nodded. “Cooper got caught by the support beam. He…”

Siobhan moved forward to Jameson, trying to keep her eyes off the corpse.

Blood pooled out around Cooper’s body, but that wasn’t the worst of it. His abdomen had been torn open by the beam, or had burst from the weight, and his insides were spilling out.

She opened her bag and rushed to pull out the potions within. “Jameson, is it?” she asked, looking at the still-living man in front of her. He was pale from blood loss. ‘This one is alive,’ she forced herself to say in her mind. ‘It’s up to me to make sure he stays that way.’

The man pressing the shirt to Jameson’s neck nodded, almost as white-faced himself from fear. “Yes, uh…yes, Mistress Sorceress. His neck, they got him.” His own forehead sported a goose-egg lump of a bruise, and one arm hung limp, supported on his legs at an awkward angle.

“How deep?” she asked, reading the labels she’d written on the bottles’ tags. ‘Why do I have no blood clotter?’ she lamented.

“About, err, this much?” Elba said, holding his finger and thumb up, about a centimeter apart.

Inside, Siobhan cursed, but outwardly, only nodded curtly. “How far away is your healer?”

“Healer Nidson’s. He’s fifteen minutes away, maybe, if we could take him on my horse. She runs like the wind,” Dryden said.

The others shared a look, half hope and half apprehension.

Siobhan grunted, her muscles tense with the need to move, to do something, her mind flitting from thought to thought with deceptively inefficient energy. ‘I’m not prepared for this! It’s worse than the nightmare where I arrive to class naked and without having studied for Professor Lacer’s test!’

“Can you save him?” the other man who had helped Dryden through the window asked. This man wore no shirt, probably because that was the fabric pressed up against Jameson’s neck to keep him from bleeding to death.

She forced her thoughts to focus with a mental twist not so dissimilar to bending her Will to work magic on the world. “Maybe. Give him this while I prepare,” she said, placing a bottle of revivifier beside Jameson, and taking out a soft chalk, to better write with on the dirty, debris-covered floor.

“It should give him a temporary boost of energy and keep his organs working,” she said. ‘The potion is not meant for situations like this, it’s meant to give a boost to the elderly or those recovering from a serious illness. But I’ve heard soldiers on the battlefield also use it as a stopgap in medical emergencies, or when they’re too exhausted to keep marching, and yet have no choice but to do so anyway. I doubt it will harm him, at least. I don’t think he’ll make it another fifteen minutes, so I must do something now.’

She drew the flesh-mirroring healing spell array on the ground. ‘Blood magic or not, I have no better option.’ There was plenty of Jameson’s blood to serve as Sacrifice. She looked up at his pale face, taking in his distant gaze and his shallow panting as he tried to get enough air. He had managed to swallow the revivifier with assistance, but it barely seemed to have helped. ‘He needs blood.’ At this point, even if she managed to seal his wound, he would likely still die.

She remembered her grandfather telling her about the necromantic healing done under the Blood Emperor’s reign, and the ability to take blood from one human and give it to another, either to temporarily increase performance or to keep the recipient alive after a wound. However, if the blood’s humors were incompatible with each other, mixing them would kill the recipient.

“Dry—” She cut off, realizing that she shouldn’t say his name. Instead, she waved at him impatiently.

He knelt beside her.

“I need blood. Blood from someone else, to give to him. If I don’t, he will die before we can get him to a healer.” The question was obvious, hanging in the air like a guillotine above them all.

“Blood magic?” Elba, the one with the broken arm, whispered.

The workers exchanged looks, and then the woman knelt beside Siobhan. “I will act as Sacrifice.”

Mr. Shoulders shook his head. “No! I will do it. You have a family, Misha. They need you alive.”

Siobhan huffed in exasperation. “One, I will only be taking a liter or two of blood. It will not kill you. Two, I need to test your compatibility with Jameson, so it’s not really up to you who will help him. The wrong person’s blood will kill him just as surely as none at all.”

Misha looked at Jameson, then to Siobhan. “How will you tell?”

Siobhan grimaced. She vaguely remembered her grandfather talking about the symptoms, but she didn’t remember how exactly the Blood Empire kept from killing their subjects. However, the symptoms were memorable enough. Hopefully, it wasn’t too complicated. “I will mix the blood. A poor reaction will be visible.” She rubbed the glass pane still stuck to her left hand on her clothes, cleaning its surface of the sphere-spinning spell array. “Grab a shard of glass from the windows, all of you. Cut your finger and place a drop on the glass here.”

They shared looks with each other, hesitating, and a couple turned to Dryden for assurance, though she didn’t know why they found a man wearing a featureless mask more reassuring than a perfectly normal young woman with skill in magic. Maybe they had some inkling that he was the leader of the Verdant Stags.

“Now!” she snapped. “Unless you’re willing to let Jameson die.”

“Do as she says,” Dryden ordered.

“It’s blood magic,” Elba muttered stubbornly.

“Your blood will replenish itself! A little weakness, for a month at most, and you save his life. Is that not a fair trade?!” Siobhan said, her voice growing increasingly loud.

The woman moved first, and the others followed after her.

Siobhan dipped her finger in Jameson’s blood and dabbed drops about the glass pane. When the others returned, she instructed them to add the drop of their own blood to his, and remember which was theirs. While she waited for a reaction to occur, she moved a few feet away and used her other hand to draw a new Circle on the ground, this one completely from her own imagination. ‘If only I had studied human anatomy in greater detail,’ she lamented. ‘How exactly am I supposed to get the blood from the donor into Jameson?’

She looked up at the pale, panting man. ‘Well, he already has a line to his bloodstream open, though obviously it only nicked the artery there, or he would already be dead. Perhaps I can just use the opening provided.’

When the spell array she hoped to use to siphon blood from the donor into Jameson was completed, she scowled down at the pane stuck to her left hand. None of the drops of blood was displaying any notable reaction. She ran a finger through one. ‘It’s coagulating. They’re all coagulating.’

She almost screamed in frustration. ‘Like this, any blood I put into him will be a gamble with his life. Perhaps…a divination?’ She almost laughed in despair. She had no skill in even simple divination like dousing for water. For something like this, which she understood so poorly, the chances of success were low. She was as likely to get a false answer as none at all.

‘It’s little better than tossing a coin, but it could increase my likelihood of choosing correctly by a few percentage points. Is it worth it to waste a couple minutes for such meager results, with him in such a dire state? He could die while I’m hesitating. But beyond even the danger of giving him the wrong type, I don’t know how to stop coagulation. Any blood is going to react when it touches the air. Why didn’t I think of that in the first place? The Blood Empire must have had some way to handle that, but I…I don’t know how. Is it possible to remove the air from an area entirely? Or maybe I could press someone’s wrist against his neck and keep the blood from meeting air that way?’

“Do you have wounded? We’re ready to transport them,” Katerin called from outside, her head still turned to watch for danger on the street.

Siobhan gasped in relief. ‘I’m not the only one who came to help.’ Standing, she yelled back, “Do you have any healing potions?”

One of the other Stag enforcers responded in Katerin’s place. “Aye! Revivifier, blood clotter, and wound cleanser. Liquid stone if any bones need stabilization for travel.” He hesitated, walking closer. “I also have an elixir of peace,” he said in a softer voice.

Sometimes, the elixir of peace was given to those who were going to die from their wounds, to take away pain and anxiety as they left the mortal world. Of course, it was also addictive, and often abused for the sense of total safety and security it gave.

Siobhan waved impatiently at the man. “Well, what are you waiting for? Bring them over here, quickly!” She turned to the other workers. “Perhaps giving blood will not be necessary after all.” She tried to keep the relief and profound uncertainty from her tone.

They poured the wound cleanser and blood clotter on Jameson’s neck, though the wound wasn’t bleeding as strongly as it had been at first, which she knew was a bad sign. The potion helped some, but didn’t stop the bleeding entirely. She nodded for him to be given a few drops of the elixir of peace as well. Addiction was the least of her worries.

After a small moment of hesitation, she also gave him the entire second dose of the revivifying potion, which she knew was too much, but something had to be done. The side effects were less severe than immediate death. “Alright. Lay him out here, in the middle,” she said, pointing to the healing spell array she’d drawn earlier. “Be careful not to smudge the chalk. The Circle must remain unbroken.”

The cut ran across the base of Jameson’s neck, crossing his collarbone on one side and ending at the top of his shoulder. It was deep enough to go past the skin, exposing bone, tendon, and muscle.

Once again using her lantern, in addition to any warmth that passed through the Circle on the wind, she cast the healing spell. Under her Will the wound began to knit back together, the damaged side of his neck mimicking the healthy one.

Someone gasped.

Jameson jerked, reaching up to scrabble at his neck. Apparently, they hadn’t given him quite enough elixir of peace to overwhelm his instinctive fear of feeling his flesh writhe on its own.

“Put your hands down!” Siobhan barked, the effort of speaking around her focus on the spell causing the Circle’s faint glow to pulse brighter as she lost some of her grip on the energy.

“It’s alright, Richie,” Misha said. “She’s healing you. Stay calm, just breathe, it’ll be over soon. We’re here with you. You’re safe.” The woman continued a constant stream of comforting words, calming Jameson, and Siobhan returned her attention fully to the spell.

She was almost finished, cold fingers of strain running up and down her spine and causing her body to tremble faintly, when shouting and flashes of light once again came from down the street.

“Coppers,” Dryden said, tension in his voice. “Wrap this up, if you can. We’ll take him to the healer for the rest.”

The wound wasn’t completely healed, but Jameson was no longer leaking blood. She dropped the spell, careful to avoid backlash from the energy she had been channeling. Her lantern flame had been sucked dead, and ice crystals formed in the air as it passed through the Circle from which she’d been drawing warmth, visibly outlining its barriers and deepening the chill around them.

“He’ll need to be carried,” she said. “We must hurry. He’s still much too low on blood. Is there a back way out?”

“The roof fell in. The back way is blocked,” Elba said, cradling his broken arm to his chest.

Siobhan lifted her head over the makeshift barrier of boxes and dirt bags to watch the coppers approach.

Katerin and the reinforcements she had gathered were still outside, though a couple of them had carried away the man with a leg injury. Now, they were gathering behind the liquid stone barrier and pressing themselves against the edges of the alley on either side of the street, wands drawn.

Dryden swore. “They’ll be arrested.”

Siobhan felt the urge to stand tall and straight in response to the stress, but ducked down behind the barrier again instead. “We need to get out of here as quickly as possible so they can run away too.”

He shook his head. “The coppers are well-outfitted, and won’t be as easy to deal with as the Morrows. Going out the front will just get us arrested with the others.”

Siobhan crouched with her hands against the floor, the glass pane stuck to her left palm creaking under the pressure. “Out the side windows, then, and we run out the back alleys?”

At the front of the building, spells had begun to fly back and forth, and even in the few seconds that had passed, one of the Verdant Stag members had already fallen, hit by a red spell Siobhan thought—hoped—was only a stunner.

“A distraction would be useful,” she said, even as the thought formed in her mind. “Another distraction, I mean. Something that could draw the coppers’ attention away from all of us entirely.”

“I am open to ideas,” Dryden said dryly, using a foot to break apart a large wooden crate. He turned to a couple of the others and explained that he had a horse tied up a couple blocks to the north. If they could get to it, it would carry Jameson faster than they could themselves. “Her name is Elmira. Explain the situation to her, and tell her that I asked her to help,” he said. “She’ll do as you say if you ask nicely.”

Once again, Siobhan ran through her options. ‘What do I have, and how can I use it to get us out of here?’ She had gold hidden in her clothes, but she doubted it would be enough to bribe the whole team of coppers into ignoring something this large. She had Dryden’s emergency response team, but they were no match for the coppers, and would provide maybe a minute or two more of protection, at most.

She had a couple of the experimental alchemy products Dryden had requested. ‘Perhaps the philtre of darkness? It might serve as a shield, while I set up a more useful distraction. Or maybe the philtre of stench.’ She realized the Morrows’ spell barrier probably wouldn’t have blocked the physical particles of the philtre of stench, and the philtre of darkness could have surrounded their barrier and blocked their sight.

‘If I’d thought of it, it could have entirely tipped the balance of the fight,’ she realized with shame.

However, the coppers had an option for individual shields spelled into their wands. More useful, maneuverable, and expensive than the barrier artifact the Morrows had used. But individual shield spells had their downsides, too, especially when most of the coppers didn’t even have one raised in favor of shooting offensive spells.

‘If they were smart, they would be moving in teams, with one shielding and the other attacking,’ she thought.

She wiped the remnants of blood off the edge of the glass pane onto Jameson’s pants while the others worked to lift him onto the wooden square Dryden had created from the broken crate. “I’m going to release a philtre of darkness. As soon as I do that, start moving Jameson. Get out of the building and far away. Scatter, actually. That will make it harder for them to find you.”

“What about you?” Dryden said, kneeling beside her.

“Once the darkness spreads, I’m going to throw Speer’s philtre of stench at them.”

He nodded. “It should be enough to temporarily incapacitate them if they don’t have wards against it, and might even throw off the scent hounds, if they bring them to track us.”

Siobhan hadn’t even considered the possibility of being tracked by scent, and was doubly glad she had decided to experiment with the disgusting philtre. “Hopefully my distraction gives the response team time to get away. I’ll follow as soon as I can.”

Dryden squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll stay with you. You may need help to escape, if they notice you. My wand still has a charge left.”

‘You would be smarter to simply leave the wand with me,’ she thought, but didn’t argue with him. She was frightened. He had helped her escape the coppers before. Perhaps she would need his help again. Instead, she nodded silently, and brought the philtre of darkness, which looked like roiling ink in a bottle, out of her bag. “Everyone take a look around, make sure you’re ready to move and know where to go.” Following her own advice, she took the philtre of stench out and held it between her teeth, eyeing the distance to the front wall.

Dryden grabbed onto the back of her cloak.

She dashed the vial of Darkness against the ground, shattering the glass.

Black clouds exploded outward.

She stood up, stepped sideways away from the others and the barrier of dirt bags and crates they had set up, and walked toward the front of the building, feeling the faint tug on her cloak that meant Dryden was following behind her, equally blind.

The philtre of darkness had taken her ninety minutes to create merely a half-dozen vials, and the impenetrably black clouds would disappear within only a minute, but she could never have cast this as an active spell, not with enough volume to obscure the inside of the warehouse and spill out into the street.

The darkness was not simply black smoke, obscuring vision and allowing any bright lights within it to refract off tiny particles in the air. No, this bottled spell was a cloud of actual darkness, as if each cumulous undulation cast an infinite number of shadows from every direction. Trying to see within its effects required magic specifically created to counteract it.

She kept walking till she hit the wall, despite the instinctual desire to stop early for fear of running into something. The windows, now broken, had stretched in a single row of empty space across the walls, so she didn’t have to search one out. She simply drew back her arm and threw.

She didn’t hear the vial break, but she heard the response it brought as the coppers shouted, then began to cough and gag.

“Stags, retreat and escape!” Dryden called.

Siobhan heard cursing, and the wind brought a short burst of footsteps to her ears, but she couldn’t tell who they came from, or even where.

She crouched down low to the ground as she made her way toward the west side of the warehouse and away from the coppers, not wanting to make an easier target of herself than necessary. ‘It would be the height of irony to be hit by a stray spell at this point.’ She crawled through the window, keeping her hands and any uncovered skin away from the sill as much as possible to avoid being nicked by any shards of glass.

Her eyes, wide open, caught faint light as she reached the edge of the philtre’s effects. Her knees were shaking, and she felt faintly nauseated. ‘This is one of the stupidest things I have ever done.’ A couple more steps brought her mostly out of the alchemical cloud. She poked her head slowly around the edge of the building, looking up the street toward where she had last seen the coppers. She had to make sure Katerin and the others were able to get away alright.

It seemed a couple of the reinforcement team had already retreated with their unconscious or injured members, but the others remained, fighting against the coppers while backing down the street, probably planning to scatter and run once they reached the corner.

The coppers were still affected by Speer’s philtre of stench, but not as much as Siobhan had hoped. All of them were coughing and gagging, but only a couple were on their hands and knees, retching onto the cobblestone.

The remainder were well enough to follow the Verdant Stag’s people down the street, shooting spells as they went. ‘The wind probably blew a lot of the philtre away.’ Unlike the darkness, which was magical and not in danger of being dispersed by anything but counter-magic, stench was largely reliant on physical particles for its effect.

She quickly rubbed out the glyphs on her portable glass spell array, leaving the actual Circle itself intact, and lifted it in front of her face, both hands pressed together in a praying position at its center, one on either side of the glass. “Life’s breath, shadow mine. In darkness we were born. In darkness do we feast. Devour, and arise.”

As it had done in Katerin’s office, on that first night in Gilbratha, her shadow darkened and writhed, moving without regard to the normal laws of light and darkness.

She continued to cycle deep breaths through the Circle, concentrating with all her might as her shadow stretched into the street till most of it stood between Dryden’s response team and the coppers.

Then, it broke from the ground and stood.

It was tall, a tattered cloak of darkness fluttering slowly, completely ignoring the whipping of the storm winds in favor of calm, liquid movement, like smoke off a pinched candle wick.

Its head was dominated almost entirely by a large beak, its other features obscured in the shadows that formed it.

The shadow-familiar spell was entirely harmless, but she hoped that they wouldn’t recognize such an esoteric spell in the confusion of battle. All she needed to do was make them hesitate enough that the Stag members could escape.

Spindly, clawed arms broke away from its sides, and it grew, towering over the coppers.

The response team recognized their opening, or were perhaps simply frightened by Siobhan’s shadow, and broke, running away under the cover of its form.

The coppers shot a few spells at it, but Siobhan clamped down on her Will, and it didn’t disperse or lighten in color. Instead, night-black ravens burst out of its sides as the spells passed through it, flying into the shadows of the alley as if to circle around to attack the coppers from behind.

Truly creating multiple different shadows with this spell was impossible. The ravens were connected to the main form by thread-thin strings of shadow, hopefully unnoticeable, and simply dispersed once they stretched too far from the main form. If she’d done it correctly, it would look like they melted into the shadows.

The coppers screamed, some firing again at the illusionary form and some firing spells erratically into the mundane shadows around them. One twisted, tripped on a cobblestone, and fell to the ground. Instead of standing he began to crawl away, his face a rictus of horror and tears. Two others broke and ran, still firing uselessly into the shadows of the alleys and doorways they passed.

Siobhan lasted only a handful of seconds more before losing control of the spell. She stumbled, half falling into the street, and her shadow snapped back into place beneath her body.

Dryden cursed, reaching down and wrapping one of her arms around his shoulders. He pulled her back away from the street, but not before one of the coppers caught sight of her, shouting “Sorceress!”

The copper shot a spell toward the alley, and it barely missed her, splashing against the ground behind them.

Regaining her footing, Siobhan turned to run deeper into the alley.

Something moved on the ground beside her, but by the time she turned to look, it was already too late. There were tentacles growing from the stone where the spell had impacted, and they snapped out and grabbed her.

Her arrested momentum tore her free of Dryden’s grip and sent her tumbling straight into the ground. She instinctively caught herself with her hands, but had forgotten the pane of glass still stuck to her left palm. It shattered against the cobblestone, sharp shards of glass biting into the flesh of her palm.

Dryden stumbled, turned, and reached for her again, grabbing her by her arms and heaving.

Her back popped in staccato as the bubbles between her spine were released, and she felt like her ankles might break, but she slipped free from the grasping tentacles and scrambled to her feet again without issue. Cradling her sliced palm to her chest, she followed Dryden as they raced into the night.

A note from AzaleaEllis

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Chapter 32 - Sheltered from the Storm

Siobhan

Month 11, Day 28, Saturday 6:00 a.m.

Dryden and Siobhan sprinted through the dark alleys and poorly lit side streets as if their boots were winged.

The coppers who hadn’t been driven off by the shadow-familiar spell gave chase, but the philtre of stench had taken a toll, and attempting to sprint with streaming eyes, snotty noses, and roiling stomachs was enough to handicap anyone.

When the storm clouds broke, sending fat rain globules pelting out of the skies to be hurled by the wind like little stones, Siobhan grinned and only ran harder. No dogs would track them after this, not past the magically overwhelming philtre of stench and the flooding rain.

She realized soon enough that she recognized some of the streets they were on, and as they ducked into one alley, through a side door that led through an empty kitchen, and out into another alley, she realized they were taking one of the Stag’s pre-arranged escape routes. She had memorized it when setting up the alarm wards, just in case.

By the time they reached their destination, one shoddy house among a row of equally shoddy houses on the outskirts of Gilbratha and well into the Mires, she was too tired to run, well out of breath and completely soaked, but they seemed to have thoroughly lost their pursuers. It was still an hour or so before first light, and the streets were almost completely empty.

Dryden knocked on the back door of the house, and they waited, shivering as the pellets of rain slapped into them sideways, driven by the force of the wind.

Footsteps from inside heralded the opening of the door, just a crack.

When the woman inside peeked out to see who had knocked on her door at such a profane hour of the morning, Dryden took off his mask.

With a gasp, she undid the chain lock, waved them in, and shut the door as soon as they had made it past the threshold. “Are you bein’ followed?” she asked, tugging her patched wool robe closer around her body.

“I don’t believe so. Not any longer, at least,” Dryden said.

The woman’s house was small, little more than two rooms, as far as Siobhan could tell. The door in the corner was open, and she saw the little forms sprawled out on the floor stir.

A child, no more than seven or eight, rose and moved to the doorway of the bedroom, peering suspiciously through tired eyes at the two of them. His clothes were patched and rough-looking, and his limbs thin, edging on bony.

The woman noticed and said, “Go back to bed, Callum.” She pulled two painstakingly cut, padded, and sewn quilts from a chest in the corner by an old rocking chair.

The boy didn’t move, still staring at the two of them. “Are you comin’ too, Mama?”

The woman sighed, pushing a few loose strands of hair back from her forehead in a motion that seemed born from habitual stress. “Yes. Now do as I say.”

A couple of the other children stirred as Callum returned to the pile of bedding on the floor of the second room, but they didn’t wake.

The woman tossed them the quilts, her eyes resting a little longer on Siobhan. “Stop drippin’ on my floor, then. Come sit by the fire.” She motioned to the hearth, which, along with the fireplace and chimney, was the only part of the tiny house made of stone. The bricks were white, no doubt having been chiseled from what little remained of the southern white cliffs. “I’ll have it stoked up again in just a moment, my lord,” she said, half bowing to Dryden.

Dryden sat at the edge of the hearth, less hesitant than Siobhan.

“Any injuries? Someone you need me to fetch or pass a message to?” the woman asked, adding wood from the sparse supply in the box beside the fireplace.

Dryden looked to Siobhan, who was still clutching her shard-covered, bloody hand to her chest.

Siobhan shook her head. “It’s not that bad. I can handle it myself.”

The woman nodded and bustled about, putting a kettle atop the iron slab that shared space with the chimney, allowing the fire to heat it.

Siobhan reached into the leather satchel at her waist, realizing only then that it was Sebastien’s school bag, and should never have gone with her as Siobhan. ‘Oh well, there’s nothing to be done about it now. I can only hope this isn’t the mistake that sends the edifice of my deceit crumbling to the ground.’ She trembled, and couldn’t tell if it was due to the cold and the wet, or the full realization of what she had done, in its aftermath.

Her fingers found one of the healing salves within the satchel, a half-empty jar of headache reliever. With the forefinger of her good hand, she dug some of the oily mixture out and began to apply it to the bloody shards stuck to her left palm. The oil helped to counteract the stickiness of the honey and adhel juice mixture, and the minty pain-relieving properties of the concoction managed to provide some relief, both burning and numbing the wounds. When her hand was free of glass, she dug out the nick-healing salve she had created the week before, which was perfect for this kind of small injury. A few minutes later, her palm was back to normal, except for the pinkish, vaguely spiderweb-shaped scars across its surface.

“Be careful that those aren’t noticed,” Dryden said.

“Of course.” The scar was distinctive, and would remain on Sebastien’s hand when she reassumed that form. It was a small enough thing, but enough small mistakes would add up to her ruin.

The woman took the kettle off the fire and poured them two steaming mugs of tea. “I’ll make sure the boy understands to keep his mouth shut,” she said, once again looking at Siobhan. “Is there anythin’ else I ought to do?”

Dryden nodded his thanks, cupping the tea between both his hands and blowing on it. “You have done more than enough. Please, do not let us disturb your rest any longer.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small handful of gold coins. “Thank you, Mrs. Branwen. I apologize, but I don’t have the agreed upon amount on me. See Katerin at the Stag later, and she will give you the rest.”

The woman clutched at the coins and bowed to him again. “Thank you, Mr. Dryden.”

He gave her a charming half smile. “No, thank you, Mrs. Branwen, for the use of your home and your hospitality.”

The woman blushed, and Siobhan realized suddenly that Mrs. Branwen was likely not much older than her, though she had first taken their host for middle-aged. ‘Hard living kills you early,’ she thought with melancholy.

Mrs. Branwen retreated to the other room. Over her shoulder, she called, “Wake me if you need me.” Once the doorway had been cleared of bedding, she shut the creaky door, giving Siobhan and Dryden a measure of privacy.

They were silent for a few minutes, letting the fire in the hearth and the mugs in their hands ward off the cold and the thunder of the storm. Finally, Siobhan said, “Do you think they all got away?”

“I believe so. For now, at least. We’ll have to take measures to avoid being caught by the investigation this will trigger, however. The Crowns do not ignore such blatant displays of unapproved magic. Still, Cooper is the only one of us who has definitively lost his chance to walk away from this.”

Siobhan shuddered as she remembered the smell of his corpse. “Why did the Morrows attack? What were those people doing in that warehouse?”

“I had a plan, when I came to Gilbratha,” Dryden began, moving to rest his forehead on his knees. “I had been traveling for a while, and I saw all these problems with the world, things that seemed like fundamental errors in the way society was functioning, do you understand? I had seen things done differently elsewhere, one thing a little bit better here, another better there, and I had ideas about how one might hypothetically change things. Those ideas led to more speculation and ideas, and before I knew it I was making real plans. Once I realized what I was doing, it was too late to stop myself. I knew it was dangerous, but I couldn’t just go back to observing uselessly. Perhaps it was simply hubris.” He tilted his head back, staring into the fire with unfocused eyes.

Siobhan’s curiosity was an abnormally patient force at that moment, subdued by the fatigue lacing her bones. She waited for him to speak.

“This, the Verdant Stag, was not my first idea. Before I came here, I wrote letters to the Crown members whose lands I was traveling through, and spoke to those influential people who occasionally hosted me. My ideas were ignored or mocked. At best, those who wished to stay on my good side responded with polite nonsense. I thought maybe I wasn’t being persuasive enough. I hadn’t truly made them understand the benefits of my ideas, the ways we were failing, and my vision of what the future could be with some simple, gradual changes. It didn’t seem like anything so radical to me, simply common sense.”

Dryden let out a humorless laugh. “I pushed for more direct meetings, framed my arguments more persuasively, used greed or fear or pride, or anything I could think of that might push them to actually do something. That didn’t work, either. I got more lip service.

“Then I came to Gilbratha and lobbied with the Crowns directly. I developed contacts, made friends among the influential, and inserted myself into the power base of Gilbratha as best I could. I was labeled a naive, philanthropic optimist, whose ideas would never work in the real world.” He gave her a wry smile. “Well, it is true that my ideas don’t seem to be working.” He spread his arms to gesture pointedly to their current status and surroundings. “But I only decided to start changing things on my own when I realized there was no room for progress within the current system.”

Siobhan frowned. “You’re saying the Crowns actively want to avoid progress? Why? And how does this relate to what happened tonight?”

He gave a small snort. “Some of the Crowns are simply too short-sighted to understand how raising up the smallest of us is good for everyone. But those people are not the real problem. Others understood fully the ideas I had, the world we could create if only we were willing to sacrifice a little at first, and put in the work… They understood, and they were afraid of it. You see, there is a finite amount of the power, the control over the human population, that they enjoy so thoroughly. If we give some of it to the common people, even the littlest bits like easier access to high-quality goods, cheaper education, or programs to stimulate innovation, well then…”

His voice was bitterly scornful. “There wouldn’t be as much power left for the wealthy and influential individuals and their families. I eventually realized that without being one of the Thirteen Crowns myself”—his tone grew darker—“or spending a few decades finagling my way into a position as ‘advisor’ to a puppet High Crown—and somehow doing so without being assassinated—I would always be an outsider. I would never achieve real change within my lifetime.”

Siobhan could see what he meant. In fact, he sounded somewhat like her grandfather. Ennis had called that kind of thinking pessimism, but to Siobhan that had just seemed like an easy way to dismiss the ideas he did not want to accept. Despite the slightly sick feeling Dryden’s words put into her stomach, it was easy to imagine them to be the truth. Without Dryden, she herself would have been successfully prevented from attending the University. She was sitting within the evidence of the disparity between the powerful and the commoners, even now. The disparity wasn’t an individual thing, based on qualities possessed by the people themselves. It was not merit that led them to either riches or poverty, but something deeply systemic. ‘People are both selfish and lazy, and this leads to stupidity. If allowed, whether by others or themselves, they will ride these vices into the deepest chasms of evil.’

“So what was your plan, when changing things the conventional way didn’t work?”

“Long-term, I plan to remove the Crowns from their position of power and take over Lenore.” His words were soft, but carried not a hint of hesitation.

Her exhausted muscles tightened slightly as a small surge of adrenaline made her heart beat faster. Dryden was planning outright treason.

He seemed to catch her discomfort and gave her a half smile. “Relax. I said long-term, and I meant it. Right now, I am focusing on simple, mostly-lawful businesses that create jobs while simultaneously producing necessary products—items like healing potions, food, and clothing, all of which can be made more efficiently and cheaply when the people themselves are given the means—or providing basic sanitation and protection to those who so desperately need it. One of the biggest tethers holding Gilbratha back is the need for magic to grow enough food for a large, concentrated population. Too much of the land surrounding Gilbratha has to be dedicated to farming, simply to feed this underperforming city. Food costs account for almost half of the average person’s income. When food, clothing, shelter, healthcare, and public safety are no longer an immediate concern, people can turn their energy to bigger things. I want to revolutionize industry in a sustainable way. The warehouse the Morrows destroyed tonight was meant to be a new type of more efficient, miniature farm—the prototype, and hopefully the first of many similar spaces. Of course…well, you saw what happened, tonight. I failed. And I am quickly running out of gold trying to do everything at once, even in such a small territory as the Verdant Stag covers.” He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it without speaking and sighed deeply, staring into the flames.

Siobhan rubbed her forehead and readjusted the blanket around her shoulders. “The warehouse farm was legal, though, correct? So the Morrows attacked it simply to harm you and your operation as a whole. I doubt they have any plans to set up something similar themselves.”

“You are correct. I don’t believe they planned to benefit from attacking the warehouse except as retaliation for my previous actions. They once ruled the territory the Stag holds, small and poor though it is, so I have taken a bite out of their haunch. Perhaps they hope to crush me before I can grow any larger. I am a threat, on both sides of the law. It’s just…what should I have done differently, Siobhan? I don’t know.”

She was silent for a while as her brain ran over the idea. She didn’t know nearly as much as he did about his plans, the Gilbrathan economy, or the way he ran the Verdant Stag. “Is food production going to be profitable?”

“Only marginally, and only after a few seasons of growth. But that’s just the start. Profit on foodstuffs was not my main concern. Gardening”—Dryden emphasized the word in a way that told her he wasn’t talking about carrots and potatoes anymore—“isn’t heavily regulated within Gilbratha, which means I don’t need to struggle with Crown members who feel I am cutting into their profits. At least not for a while, until I start to make enough progress to draw attention. Additionally, I had hoped to grow some of the more common magical plants in hidden areas, which would in turn cut supply costs for production of potions through the Verdant Stag’s alchemy business. Perhaps the Morrows learned of this, and it was the tipping point for tonight’s catastrophe.”

She still thought Dryden was naive to the point of recklessness, but…he wasn’t giving only lip-service, and there was something to respect in that. He had changed at least a few lives for the better. That woman whose son might have died without their little alchemy shop, for one. Siobhan herself was another. He was the reason she was attending the University right now, after all. As much as it was her instinct to do so, she could hardly condemn his ideas when she was the beneficiary of them. ‘And, maybe, if he somehow gets as much in return from everyone else he helps in his territory as what he will get from me, his investment could be sustainable. Except most of the people he’s helping aren’t thaumaturges, so how much use can they really be?’

She set those thoughts aside. “I think you’re going to have to find a way to force quicker profitability, Mr. Dryden. Perhaps narrow your focus only to those things you have the resources to grasp firmly. Otherwise, you’ll lose everything. You’ll need money, for more extensive defensive wards and more enforcers. Alternatively, you could find a way to keep the Morrows from attacking you again. Would they be willing to accept a truce?”

“I…don’t know. I’ll think on it, though I don’t know that any terms they would accept would be tolerable to me. And please, Siobhan, call me Oliver. After a night such as ours, I think we’re past the silly formalities, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

He gave her a real smile, then, tinged with fatigue but no despair. They fell into silence for a few minutes, shifting slightly to expose new sections of their bodies to the warmth of the fire, before he said, “Will you be able to get back into the University without them noticing anything untoward?”

Siobhan sighed. She hadn’t yet considered how exactly she was going to achieve that. “Tomorrow—today—is Saturday. I was planning to spend it doing alchemy, but I think I might take a nap instead. As long as no one notices that my things are missing before I get back—and they shouldn’t unless they look in my trunk—and as long as I’m able to retrieve everything from the alley I so haphazardly hid it in, I should be fine. I’m well known for strange sleep habits by now, so no one should find it suspicious when they wake and find me missing.” She rubbed her forehead again and wished she had more headache-relieving salve. Her jar had been used up on getting the glass off her hand. “I really am not suited to this.”

He quirked an eyebrow up. “Not suited to what?”

“All this…” She waved her hand vaguely. “Excitement. Adventure.”

He snorted. “I’m not sure that’s true. You seem to find yourself in these situations often enough, and you perform with surprising adroitness for someone who truly doesn’t desire anything more than to sit in a library and research all day.”

She straightened, turning a scowl onto him. Her mouth opened, and then it closed again. “There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to start,” she said finally.

He snorted, and then, seemingly unable to hold it in, wadded a section of his blanket over his face to muffle the sound and devolved into outright laughter. When he was finished, he looked back up at her and grinned. “Your expression was amusing,” he explained, ignoring her continued scowl.

She let out a snort of her own, much less amused, and settled back down to stare at the fire. “Well, it’s not so much that I mind excitement, but that I mind being anything less than ridiculously and unreservedly over-prepared for any excitement. I…I have goals too, you know, and I’m sure getting where I need to will not be without struggle. It’s that I’m not ridiculously over-prepared for the things I’ve been getting into. I’m scrambling just to keep my head above water, and it seems I keep being bashed in the face with how stupid and thoughtless I am, and if I am so inept I don’t even realize how inept I am until I’m slapped with proof…” She took a deep breath and kept herself from rambling.

“You’re being too hard on yourself. We saved a life, maybe even more than one, tonight. Everyone makes mistakes. The important thing is to learn from them, right?”

She shook her head, sneering slightly. “Learn from your mistakes? That platitude is so obvious it’s useless. Of course you should learn from your mistakes. If you’re an average person with no ambition, maybe doing that can keep you alive and relatively content. For people with real goals, and real opposition to those goals, it’s not enough to keep making stupid mistakes and simply learning as you go along. Sooner or later, you make a stupid mistake you cannot recover from. Mistakes are inevitable, but stupid mistakes due to lack of planning, preparation, and basic foresight are not. I cannot be prepared for every eventuality, that is true, but I should have at least enough prudence to look at my past failures and extrapolate future failures from there. I failed to imagine everything that could go wrong. Sure, I took some convenient measures to ready myself for negative eventualities, but I didn’t make the effort to truly mitigate the dangers I knew I might be involved in.”

She took another deep breath and looked away from his solemn gaze. “Dryd—Oliver, I knew the coppers might come after me, if something went wrong. I knew the Morrows were attacking your people, and even injured one severely. I didn’t imagine that I would be called in to help fight against them, but…why did I not prepare myself for a fight at all? Some sort of barrier or protection spell could have been the difference between life and death tonight, or against the coppers if they had found me. Why did I not learn any? Why didn’t I have a blood-clotting potion? You gave me a list of useful battle potions and the like, and I experimented with a handful of them, but nothing more. If your emergency response team had been fully kitted out with a couple of each, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so bad in the first place.”

Her voice grew strained. “Maybe the Morrows wouldn’t have been able to bring down half the building, and that man, Cooper would still be alive. Even when we arrived, I could have done things better. The philtre of stench is based more on physical particles in the air than magic. It might have incapacitated the Morrows as soon as we arrived, if I had thought of it. A man died tonight, and this still could have been so much worse. There are a hundred different ways tonight could have ended in complete disaster, and I was not prepared for any of them. Aren’t you the one who says the only way to avoid your subterfuge being caught out is to be truly meticulous with both planning and execution? This is the same.”

He was silent for a few moments. “Alright. But by that logic, this was really all my fault, not yours. It wasn’t your responsibility to be prepared for something like this. They aren’t your people, they’re mine. If not for my own lack of foresight and preparation, you would be asleep in your bed right now.”

She sighed deeply. “Something being the fault of one person does not make it less the fault of another. I could have changed today’s outcome for the better, and I didn’t. The fact that you might have done the same doesn’t make me less responsible. It only means that we both failed.”

He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “Well, we will learn better. No more stupid mistakes.”

She felt her muscles relaxing subtly under the touch and gave the fireplace a small smile. “My grandfather used to say, ‘If you aren’t over-prepared, you are underprepared.’ I remember thinking as a child that he was just paranoid from living too long, that the world wasn’t actually out to make every possible thing go wrong.” She let out a small huff of wry amusement.

He squeezed her shoulder again, then withdrew his hand and lay down on the edge of the stone hearth. “I’m going to close my eyes for a bit. We should be able to leave once the storm passes, with a little grooming to make sure we don’t draw attention.”

Siobhan hugged her knees to her chest and kept staring into the fire, wrapping herself more fully in the borrowed blanket. She had known, when Oliver rode up on the horse and asked her to help protect his people, that she wasn’t prepared to do so. She had known she was underprepared as soon as the bracelet on her wrist grew cold, in fact.

She thought of what she had seen tonight. The frightened people, the blood, the death. If things had gone only a little differently, she could have been hit by one of the Morrows’ attacks, or captured by the grasping tentacles of the copper’s spell. She could be dead, or in jail, or expelled from the University. She shuddered at the thought, a visceral reaction of fear and rejection.

‘It wasn’t worth it,’ she admitted to herself. ‘If things had gone differently, I would have regretted my decision to help. I value my own life and safety more than that of a stranger’s. And yet…and yet, I cannot imagine myself saying no when Dryden asked for my aid, even without the threat of the blood vow hanging over me.’ She bent her head, combing her fingers through her hair to dry it in the warmth of the fire. She knew a spell to help repel water, but she was too tired to cast it.

‘The desire to help people who don’t deserve their misfortune and the desire to ensure my own personal safety are contradictory. But…they are both part of me. I must understand myself, because you must understand yourself before you can change yourself. And you must change yourself to change the world. So. Being honest, fulfilling my desire to help isn’t worth it if putting myself in danger means I lose my freedom and magic. I’m too selfish, and I’m not interested in becoming a hero or a martyr.’

She tried to make herself believe it, because she knew it was true, but something inside her still rejected the idea of walking away while the Morrows attacked Jameson and Misha and the others.‘Plus,’ she reasoned with a little too much cheer to totally trust the thought, ‘my blood print vow doesn’t allow me to refuse favors to the Verdant Stag unless I find them morally reprehensible. I don’t have entirely free will in the matter. So…what do I do? If nothing changes, something like today will happen again.’

She reached into her vest pocket and pulled out her Conduit, staring into the crystalline depths lit up by the orange flames. ‘Well, the answer is always “seize power.” If you don’t know what you need, take power, for it can be converted into almost anything else.’

Those were her grandfather’s words again, but they seemed right. ‘If I’m going to be getting myself into situations like these, I must grow powerful enough that I can actually handle them.’ She began to make a mental list of useful preparations, things to learn and items to carry. Excuses she might start setting up now that could help her explain her way out of scrutiny or blame. Her eyes began to droop and her forehead fell forward to rest on her knees. Slumber reached up around her like tendrils of a dark cloud from the abyss.

She slept for a time, restlessly, her mind dancing with flames, blood, and fear worn old.

A searing pain from her chest woke her.

A note from AzaleaEllis

I’m excited to announce a Patreon Special Offer I’m running along with the launch of the first book in A Practical Guide to Sorcery, A Conjuring of Ravens! This offer is available for only two weeks, through February 26.

All pledges at $7 or more will receive a faux-celerium Conduit keychain (in our world it’s known as raw quartz). This level also includes early access to the next 3 chapters of the story, which will be getting into Book 2, A Binding of Blood, and all the illustrated excerpts from Siobhan’s grimoire.

Pledges at $25 or more will also receive a personalized paperback copy of the book, with your name in it and a message from me on the first page, along with a signed bookplate sticker I designed for this story. The bookplate sticker is meant to go inside the book, but you can do whatever you want with it.

When we hit milestones like 25 patrons, 35 patrons, and 50 patrons, there will be extra rewards, like bonus chapters, omake chapters, and more illustrated excerpts from Siobhan’s grimoire.

Learn more here: https://www.patreon.com/azaleaellis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-33-temporary-inversion-of-income-vs-expense/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 33 - Temporary Inversion of Income vs. Expense

Siobhan

Month 11, Day 28, Saturday 8:00 a.m.

Siobhan jerked her legs away from her chest, scrabbling to get her hand past her vest and shirt to whatever was causing the pain. She yanked out the straps around her neck, the warded medallion and the transmutation amulet dangling from her clenched fist.

The medallion was covered in frost.

It took her a few seconds to comprehend what that meant, her mind still fogged by stress and sleep. Once she did, she snapped the leather cord keeping the medallion attached to her and tossed the frosted disk into the embers of the fireplace. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” she cried unthinkingly, causing Oliver to jerk to wakefulness.

“What? What is it?” he said, snapping upright and looking around.

“We are being scried!” she hissed, lunging for the small box of wood beside the fireplace and tossing a couple pieces onto the embers. She grabbed a lump of charcoal from the edge of the fire, heedless of the risk of burning her fingers, and drew a large Circle around the hearth and the chimney.

She stepped back to avoid the reach of the sphere and almost dropped her Conduit as she fumbled it out of a vest pocket. She had cast the spark-shooting spell plenty of times during her life, but without proper, easily ignited kindling, and in such a panic, her first attempt failed to reignite the flames.

Siobhan paused, took a deep breath, and released it slowly, forcing the full pressure of her Will to bend the world—specifically, to ignite the piece of wood at the center of the Circle. A large, bright spark settled at the point where her eyes were focused, and with an effort that sent a spike of pain through her head, the wood caught fire. Rather than simply sit back and let the flame spread naturally, she kept pushing with her Will, pulling at the edges of the heat, forcing the fire to flare up as quickly as possible.

Beside her, Oliver tossed something into the fireplace, and the flames roared up greedily.

The medallion sucked at the warmth of the now blazing fire.

“Whiskey,” Oliver explained, tucking the flask back into a pocket.

“Good idea.” She dug in her pack, pulling out a couple jars, some cotton, a few pieces of paper, and a wrapped ball of beeswax. She tossed everything but the jars into the fire, then dug out the salves from the jars and flicked that in too. The flames consumed and burned brighter, a few licking up with strange colors, and she squinted into them to see the medallion.

“Talk to me,” Oliver said. “Do we need to run?”

“Not yet. The medallion contains a protective spell, a strong one. Anti-scrying is included. We’re safe as long as it has enough heat to stay charged. But it is bad. Very bad.” She could hear a faint sound from the metal, as if it was groaning in pain. Whoever was on the other end of the scrying spell was pouring an excessive amount of power into it. They had to be a Master at least, or maybe a group of Journeymen casters.

With a trembling breath, she drew the glyph for “heat” on the hearth in front of her, inside the Circle, then pressed her Conduit between both hands and began to cast, pulling tongues of flame off the fire and feeding them to the medallion in bright splashes. She began to shiver, not from cold, but from the waves of pain running from her head down her spine, sending involuntary spasms through her muscles.

<p>The medallion continued to absorb the heat, and so she ignored the strain and continued to feed it. She heard Oliver calling her name in alarm, but couldn’t spare the concentration to respond in any way.

Finally, the medallion stopped absorbing the heat she channeled to it.

Very carefully, she released the energy and detached her Will from the spell. Just as she was releasing it, the magic under her control shuddered, and she was splashed with a small explosion of still-burning embers and ash from the fireplace.

Oliver cursed, using his damp quilt to pat her down and sweep away the embers.

She pulled her hands apart numbly, ignoring the deep indentations her Conduit had made in her skin.

The crystal crumbled apart, falling to her lap in pieces.

That happened when too much power was channeled through a sub-par Conduit.

None of the pieces were big enough to be useful for spellcasting anymore, but she still gathered them up with trembling fingers and put them in one of her pockets. ‘Thank the stars above it didn’t break until the last moment.’

She’d heard more than one story about a Conduit shattering while someone was in the middle of channeling magic. The kindest outcome was Will-strain. Explosions were common, as the power contained within the Circle escaped. One woman had one of her legs switched with her donkey’s. A man had tried to keep casting to avoid that, and ended up channeling the magic through his body. The euphoria was too much for him, and though he lived, slowly progressing into dangerous madness that forced her grandfather to kill him, Siobhan had always thought it would have been a mercy if he’d died immediately.

“It’s over, I think. They didn’t find us,” she whispered, shivering. “But this means they have a piece of me. But how, how would they get—” She closed her mouth slowly, then looked down at her palm and the spiderweb of scars across its surface. “It started raining,” she murmured. “But they must have picked up the glass before that. They have my blood.” Feeling dizzy, she let herself fall back to sit on the floor.

Oliver’s face was pale. “They will keep trying, again and again.”

“The wards on the medallion won’t hold out.” She stood with a wobble and did not shake off Oliver’s concerned hand on her arm as she might have otherwise. She pulled her hair back from her face, combing it roughly with her fingers and then pulling on her cloak and tucking it under the hood. “Do you know where they might keep the evidence? Is it possible we could get it back, or…destroy it?”

He rubbed his hand down his face. “I assume they keep evidence at Harrow Hill, but I have no idea where specifically, and I don’t know how we would go about accessing it.”

She shook her head, biting down on her thumbnail.

Stirring from the bedroom announced that Mrs. Branwen or one of her children had woken, probably because of the ruckus the two of them were creating.

Siobhan crouched down uncomfortably close to the fire, reaching for the iron poker and digging out her medallion. It fell onto the stone of the hearth. She waved her hand over it, gauging the heat radiating off the metal for a few seconds. It stayed warm, indicating the scrying attempt had definitely ended, so she wrapped the edge of her cloak around her hand and picked it up. One of the tiny glyphs carved into its surface was smeared, probably from a combination of the spillover heat and channeling too much power, almost unrecognizable. Artifacts could be recharged, if you knew the right spell—which she didn’t—but it would be impossible to do so with damage to the spell array. At least the other protective spells woven into the metal disk were still functional. She pressed her lips together, then pocketed the medallion. “The next time they try that, the ward is going to fail, and they are going to find me.”

“How long do we have? Your medallion cannot be the only answer. We can get another one. Liza, she could cast the spell.”

Mrs. Branwen opened the door and stuck her head out. As soon as her eyes landed on the charcoal Circle around her fireplace, she slipped out, shutting the door to the bedroom behind her with a stern warning to her children to stay put.

Siobhan grimaced. “I’m not sure. Liza may be skilled, but this medallion was created by my grandfather. He was more powerful by far. Liza could protect me if she was with me to cast the spell, but if Seb—” She glanced at Mrs. Branwen. “If he simply disappears from school, that’s suspicious too, right?” Staying with Liza would destroy her ability to attend the University. There had to be another way. “Still, this medallion has multiple protections built into it, and each one is necessarily weaker for the versatility. Perhaps she could help with a spell specifically to protect against scrying. Her house is—”

She stopped and took a couple shuddering breaths, focusing her mind as if she was casting a spell. Her body was still, her mind the opposite. Crises always seemed to make her smarter, quicker. “We should leave,” she said, already turning toward the door. “You will want to erase the spell array,” she said to the woman. “Just in case.”

Mrs. Branwen had already grabbed a straw broom from the corner and started sweeping away the charcoal marks on her hearth.

Oliver followed after Siobhan, but stopped to tell the woman, “I don’t expect anyone to come knocking, but if they do, you can count on the Stag.” He closed the door gently behind him.

Siobhan turned the corner into a small alley and pressed the dark stone of the transformation amulet against her skin beneath her clothes, sparking the change with a pulse of Will. Even that small amount of effort sent a spike of pain through her head. In a moment, she was Sebastien again. She took off the cloak Oliver had given her when he picked her up on his horse and tucked it into her bag. It wasn’t safe to walk the streets as her true self, and at this point she wasn’t technically doing anything illegal. “I have a plan.”

The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon, but most of the city had not yet stirred from their beds, so they passed through the streets unnoticed. “Liza’s house is warded,” Sebastien explained to Oliver as they walked, just barely slow enough not to seem strangely hurried. “I’m sure it will have protections against scrying. I should be safe there until we can come up with a real solution, which you were correct in saying that she might be able to help with.”

Sebastien felt too dizzy to properly tally up her remaining coin, but remembered it was barely over two hundred gold. ‘In addition to Liza’s help, I will need to obtain a replacement Conduit.’ Once, she would have considered two hundred gold enough money to do nearly anything, but since coming to Gilbratha she had become quite disillusioned.

When they neared Liza’s house, Sebastien ducked into another alley and returned to her form as Siobhan. Liza only knew the dark-haired woman, and she didn’t want to associate Sebastien with a criminal.

She let Oliver use the animated lion door-knocker, taking deep breaths to steady herself as they waited.

They hurried into the house when the door opened, and Siobhan took a sweeping glance of the street as she closed the door behind them. She saw nothing suspicious, and hoped that was because no one was watching them, and not because their possible enemy was skilled enough to evade notice.

Liza came out of the attached room already scowling, the dark bags under her eyes only seeming to deepen as her gaze swept over the two of them. “The planes-damned sun has barely risen, Oliver. What fresh hell have you brought to my doorstep today?”

Oliver looked to Siobhan, but she was slow to answer, so with a concerned frown, he spoke. “We were in an altercation last night. Part of this involved a mostly harmless skirmish with the coppers, and we believe they obtained a small amount of Siobhan’s blood. They tried to scry her.”

Liza’s face twisted angrily. “And you brought them straight to me?” Her arms fell to her sides and her fingers spread as if she meant to claw the air.

“No,” Siobhan said, shaking her head somewhat frantically as she felt the tightening of the air that signified the waking of a powerful Will. “I have—had—a warding medallion. The scrying failed, but my Conduit broke, and I need your help. The house is warded, right? I wouldn’t have come here otherwise. I just need your help to make another anti-scrying artifact, and th—” Her tongue seemed to stumble over itself, and she reached out to brace herself on the wall as the room tilted slowly.

Oliver grasped her arm. “Siobhan, are you alright?”

Liza “tched” loudly. “Will-strain. Her Conduit broke?”

Oliver nodded. “Yes. How bad is it, can you tell?”

Siobhan straightened. She’d come close to Will-strain a couple times in her life, but this time she seemed to have tipped over the edge. “Not bad, I think. I have a headache and I feel dizzy and dis…disoriented.” She paused, then continued, enunciating carefully. “But I’m not seeing or hearing anything strange, and I can remember everything that has happened since my Conduit broke until now.”

Liza waved an impatient hand at them. “Well, hurry and follow me, then. We had best get inside the stronger wards below. The girl will need rest.”

Oliver kept a hand around Siobhan’s arm as they followed, which she acknowledged the need for as the room spun, this time more violently.

“How desperately do they want to find you?” Liza asked once they were down below.

“Quite desperately, I would imagine,” Oliver said quietly.

Liza grunted, leading them past the room they had cast the messenger spell in the last time and to a door made of iron bars, like a jail cell. A quick touch of her hand to the lock opened it, and she waved to the spartan cot within.

‘What type of guest does she normally keep in this room, to require a door made of bars that can only be opened from the outside?’ Siobhan sat down on the cot, closing her eyes to avoid seeing the vaguely shimmering lines and glyphs covering the walls at the edges of her vision. Leaning back against the wall, she allowed her muscles to relax slightly. “My medallion uses heat to power its defenses,” she said, pulling the metal disk out of her pocket and holding it out to Liza. “I tossed it into the fire and used an impromptu spell to force heat into it, but it was still barely enough.”

Liza examined the medallion, pulling a convex lens out of a pocket and peering through it at the artifact. She was silent for a long while, then said, “Wait here,” and walked out of the room.

Oliver shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment, then with a sharp sigh sat beside Siobhan on the cot.

Siobhan thought she might have dozed off, because she closed her eyes, and when she opened them, Liza was already walking back through the door. “This is very interesting work,” she said. “Some of the most efficient energy transformation I have ever seen, as well as a surprising number of protections woven into such a small area. Who created it?”

“My grandfather,” Siobhan said.

Liza peered at her, then back to the medallion. “Well. I cannot recreate this. Not without some intensive study and perhaps taking the medallion apart. It seems the spells are literally woven through the metal, layer upon layer. The anti-scrying spell was pushed too far to simply be recharged.”

Siobhan frowned. The medallion was one of the few things she had left of her grandfather. She didn’t want Liza to dissect it like a frog. Plus, it still had a half-dozen other protections in place, all of which should still be functional. “Can you make me an artifact just for the scrying? It doesn’t need to be like the medallion, as long as it works. Something a little more powerful would be good.”

“Something more powerful than this?” Without waiting for them to respond to her incredulous question, Liza said, “Wait here,” and left once again.

This time, she was gone for longer, and Siobhan definitely dozed off while waiting. Liza returned with her arms full of various arcane books, set them on the ground, and then left again to fetch a small wooden block covered in a complicated spell array. She placed it on the ground, flattened her palm to it, and muttered something Siobhan didn’t quite catch. The block unfolded, becoming a chair and desk made out of hundreds of smaller segments.

Siobhan blinked, hoping that her mind had not sunk into hallucinations.

Liza smirked at them as she set the books on the table. “I call it the portable office. Horribly complicated, of course, but extremely convenient when you need a place to sit and work while on the go. For ninety gold, I can make you or your friends one too.”

Siobhan and Oliver shared a look, but Liza had already turned her attention to the spell books, so they were saved from answering.

Liza flipped through the books seemingly at random, taking notes and leaving small bookmarks between the pages.

Siobhan would normally have attempted to read over the woman’s shoulder, but her head had begun to pound fiercely, and she found she didn’t have the wherewithal to do anything other than lie back and breathe carefully.

She hadn’t realized that Oliver left the room until he came back carrying a tray with a kettle of tea, a jar of minty salve, and a couple slices of thick brown bread smeared with creamy butter. He poured Liza a cup of tea first, which she gave him a distracted nod of thanks for, then set the tray on the cot beside Siobhan.

She fumbled to open the jar of headache-relieving salve, then smeared it not only on her temples but across her hairline, the back of her neck, and even kneaded a bit into the muscles of her shoulders. It was powerful, and began to work almost immediately. It didn’t remove the mental fog or disorientation, but it helped to push the throbbing, nausea-inducing pain back enough that she could function past it.

When she set the jar down, Oliver pressed a cup of tea and a slice of bread into her hand. “You need to eat and get some liquid in your system, I think,” he said. When she hesitated at the thought of putting anything in her roiling stomach, he loomed over her threateningly. “If I need to, I will force it into your mouth and pinch your nose closed until you swallow.”

She scowled at him and took a sip of tea, then a nibble of the rich bread. “No need to be so dramatic,” she muttered.

Liza frowned at the sound of her voice, turning to her. “You should be asleep, girl. But since you are not…I have some ideas for a solution to your problem. What do you think about this? We could anchor the warding spell in your flesh. A tattoo or a brand would work, but I think a carving might be most effective. When active, the spell would use your blood as a component, which is doubly effective for its power and because they are using your blood to track you. I have some other ideas too, which should sharply increase the effectiveness of the ward.”

“A carving? Would this be visible?”

“Yes. Five of them, I think, one for each of the Elemental Planes…” She turned back to the books, which seemed to have multiplied atop the table.

“That won’t work,” Oliver stated. “She needs something that can be hidden, and that isn’t permanent like a scar.”

Liza raised her head and glared at him, then Siobhan. “Is this true?”

“Yes. Scars like that might raise unwanted interest.” She had no intention of removing her clothes in front of someone else at any time during her stay at the University, but allowing for such an easy method of distinguishing her identity was senseless. It could go wrong in so many ways.

Liza took a sip of tea and seemingly dismissed the two of them from her thoughts once again.

Siobhan finished two cups of tea and another slice of bread, and when she woke, she was covered by a thick, soft blanket and had a fluffy pillow under her head. She was alone in the room, and though the headache-relieving salve seemed to have used up its magic, the throbbing in her temples was bearable. Both Oliver and Liza were gone, along with the table, chair, and books.

She rose and went to the room with Liza’s magical chamber pot. She thought about exploring the lower level to see what else Liza kept in the most secure part of her secret abode, then decided it was probably too dangerous to do so without Liza’s knowledge or permission. There would likely be defenses woven into the very walls. Instead, she climbed the stairs to the upper level where Liza kept her own miniature Menagerie and the bookcases. The light coming through the windows had changed position. Siobhan judged it to be early evening.

Oliver looked up from the couch he was sprawled on, setting aside the book he had been reading. “How is your brain?”

“Better,” Siobhan said.

Liza scribbled a few more words on the huge roll of paper laid on the desk before her, then turned to Siobhan as well. “Come over here and look at this. I have designed the warding spell we will use. It is absolutely ingenious, if I do say so myself. If I cared about titles and thought I had a chance of being accepted through that bigoted, discriminatory council, I might apply for Grandmastery in the field with this.”

Siobhan walked to the table and saw that the paper was covered in spell designs and notes. It was complex and obviously powerful, and once again she rethought her opinion of this woman. ‘The next time she tries to charge more for the possibility of Will-strain, I’m not likely to believe her.’ She read the scribbled note that estimated this artifact would take over seven thousand thaums to charge with the warding spell. A Master might graduate from their ninth term at the University with a Will that could handle one to two thousand thaums, depending on their dedication, while most Apprentices, after three University terms, couldn’t do much better than three hundred. “What is it anchored to?” she asked, frowning as she read the glyph for “blood” as a multi-use Sacrifice.

“I will be creating five disks to hold the spell. We will insert them under your skin, Oliver said that would be fine. Aside from a small scar, they will be undetectable, and can be removed and replaced if you ever need the spell recharged.”

“It’s amazing,” Siobhan said honestly. She put her hand over the pocket where the shards of her Conduit rested. “Liza, there is something else I might hire you to do. That raven messenger spell, the Lino-Wharton? I was wondering if you could do that again.”

Oliver frowned. “You wish to speak to your father again?”

Siobhan shook her head. “No, but my main Conduit was shattered, and he has one that belongs to me. It was my mother’s. It that should be strong enough to last me for a long time. I want it back.”

“It’s unlikely he has it on him,” Oliver said. “He would have been searched and relieved of any magical items before being put in the cell. Your Conduit is either in an evidence box, the item holding room, or one of the guards has taken it for themselves and conveniently forgotten to note that it was in his possession when he was brought in.”

Siobhan shook her head. “I don’t think so. This Conduit is the gem in an heirloom ring. The band of the ring is an artifact that creates a Loomis anti-awareness field along with a minor chameleon effect. I think he still has it, or he would have complained about them stealing from him.”

Oliver looked to Liza. “Would they not have some way to check for an active spell?”

Liza snorted. “The ability to do a general check for an active spell doesn’t exist. People detect spells by casting a specific counter-spell or detection spell and seeing if anything happens. If people could detect magic so easily, that would mean we had at least some true understanding of magic. That is not the case, unfortunately. Harrow Hill’s wards should be able to detect a fluctuation in certain types of energy that usually signify a spell being cast or ended, but that is as close as they get. However, depending on the quality of the Conduit your father holds, it may not be cost-effective to retrieve it. Without your ability to assist my spell casting, even a short-duration messenger will cost you fifty gold. Is the Conduit worth more than that, or do you simply want it for its sentimental value?”

Siobhan pushed a few loose strands of hair away from her face. “The firstborn in my family have used it as their primary Conduit for at least a few generations. It was my mother’s. It should be able to support a sorcerer of at least Master level.”

Liza nodded appreciatively. “Well, you will want to retrieve it, then, especially with the price of celerium lately. However, this brings me to the matter of payment. Two hundred fifty gold for the anti-scrying ward, and fifty for the messenger spell.”

Siobhan stared at her in shock. Two hundred fifty gold for the scrying ward? That was enough money for a family to live on for a year. It was more than she still had left. She might have been able to afford it, just barely, if she hadn’t bought any new clothes for Sebastien. But she had.

‘Why did I not get the Conduit from my father when I had the chance?’ she lamented.

Siobhan swallowed painfully. “If you let me borrow a Conduit, I can help you cast the messenger spell again. And if there are any parts of creating the ward artifact that I could aid you in, I’m more than willing to do so. Can we negotiate on the price? Perhaps you could use less potent materials, or…”

Liza sighed deeply, closing the book in front of her. “I have done all this work, only to find that you cannot afford my services?”

Siobhan cursed the fog still clouding her mind. “It’s not that I cannot afford them, it is just that I cannot afford them right now, or that I cannot afford them in gold.”

“You’re broke.”

“I’m not broke. I’m merely experiencing a temporary inversion in my ratio of income versus expenses,” Siobhan shot back.

Oliver barked out a surprised laugh.

Liza glared at her for a long few seconds. “Hmph. Well, perhaps you would like to do a trade? Your little medallion, for instance. I would pay one hundred fifty gold for that. Or, if you are able to retrieve this Conduit from your father and it is as unclouded as you say, it could pay for both spells itself, and a replacement Conduit of lesser value, beyond that.”

Siobhan was silent as she suppressed her instinctive denial. ‘The ring is my birthright, but what good is a birthright if I am dead or in prison?’ The medallion had been made by her grandfather, and still had half a dozen other warding spells that were active, but he would have scoffed at her sentimentality and told her that survival was paramount, and that was the purpose of the medallion in the first place, whether it protected her from an opponent’s spell or bought her enough gold to do the same. Still, both the medallion and the ring were hers, even if her father had taken the ring to wear himself, and she didn’t want to lose them.

Oliver cleared his throat. “If you wish, Siobhan, your payment for yesterday could be given to you in gold. One hundred gold, I think, if we include a bonus for being called on without notice?”

Her stare turned to him, and he looked away.

“I cannot offer such a large bonus in the future, but…just this once,” he said. “You likely saved me the bribes I would have had to pay to get my people out of Harrow Hill.”

Siobhan felt her lip tremble and carefully steeled her face so her expression didn’t crumple with tears. ‘The Will-strain is making me volatile.’ She knew the offered payment was likely several times more than the wand-wielding magicians Oliver employed would be compensated. Though the coppers, perhaps, wouldn’t have acquired her blood if he had not asked for her aid, this was really just a continuation of the trouble that had begun before she’d even met him, trouble that almost certainly would have caught up with her already if not for his involvement.

Clenching her jaw, Siobhan avoided thinking about his kindness or her overwhelming relief until she could speak without embarrassing herself. “Yes, I would like my payment in gold this time,” she said, nodding just deeply enough to show her gratitude without making a big deal of it. Thinking about it another way, Oliver was partially responsible for both the loss of her Conduit and for the coppers obtaining her blood. If she’d stayed at the University that night, they might have eventually given up looking for her entirely. ‘In that sense, he owes me. This is nothing more than what he should do, even if technically he’s not obligated to.’ She felt a bubbling rush of irritation and resisted the urge to scowl at him. ‘If I’d been smart, I would have required compensation for injury and loss to be a provision in the blood print vow.’

She swallowed down her mercurial emotions and turned to Liza. “I cannot offer you my medallion for good, but if you would like to examine it, without damaging it, I would be happy to allow you to research it for one hundred gold.”

“Twenty,” the woman shot back without hesitation.

“Once you’ve researched it, the spells can be recreated. They aren’t unique anymore, which makes the medallion less valuable. Eighty.”

“Sixty-five.”

“Deal.” Siobhan reached out her arm to shake Liza’s hand. With this, she still had some gold left over.

“Deal.” Liza accepted the handshake. “I will go get the blood print vow sheets. After we complete the vow, Oliver and I are going shopping, and you are going back to sleep.”

A note from AzaleaEllis

The Patreon Special Offer I'm running along with the launch of Book 1 is still going for 1 more week.

All pledges at $7 or more will receive a faux-celerium Conduit keychain (in our world it’s known as raw quartz). This level also includes early access to the next 3 chapters of the story, which is now getting into Book 2, A Binding of Blood, and all the illustrated excerpts from Siobhan’s grimoire.

Pledges at $25 or more will also receive a personalized paperback copy of the book, with your name in it and a message from me on the first page, along with a signed bookplate sticker I designed for this story. The bookplate sticker is meant to go inside the book, but you can do whatever you want with it.

When we hit milestones like 25 patrons, 35 patrons, and 50 patrons, there will be extra rewards, like bonus chapters, omake chapters, and more illustrated excerpts from Siobhan’s grimoire.

Learn more here: https://www.patreon.com/azaleaellis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-34-back-door-deals/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 34 - Back Door Deals

Oliver

Month 11, Day 28, Saturday 5:00 p.m.

Oliver had been almost as anxious about returning to the Verdant Stag as he was eager. He needed to ensure all his people had escaped the night before. He had a few local coppers in his pocket, and at least one of them would give word when a Stag was arrested, along with relaying other relatively harmless information about the goings-on of the local law enforcement.

Both he and Liza were well known around these parts. Though most didn’t know him as the leader of the Verdant Stags without his mask, he was an obviously wealthy man that enjoyed “slumming it” with those poorer and more dangerous than himself. People surely suspected he was involved in some sort of crime or nefarious activity, but that was not so uncommon for the wealthy. As long as they didn’t discover his true efforts and goals until it was too late to stop him, that was fine.

Liza was recognized for what she was—a powerful and dangerous sorceress, one not bound by the restrictions of the law.

Together, they received nods and wary looks as they passed the citizens who were heading home as night fell.

He looked at the peoples’ coarse, patched clothing, the dirt lining the tired wrinkles of those who had grown old while still young, and the cobbles of the streets that had been washed clean by the river-swelling torrents of rain, but would soon be coated with filth again. Shops had picture signs instead of names, for those who could not read, which was most of them.

Men and boys without jobs skulked on the corners and in the alleys, smoking cat’s-cough and glaring out at the world, some of them with gang colors or symbols displayed with varying levels of subtlety.

A woman hacked up blood into her handkerchief, then tucked the cloth away in her pocket and continued to beg for alms.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and let out a deep sigh, walking a little faster. This would all change when he ruled. The Stags might have control over only a tiny portion of the city at the moment, but he was already making things better. If he could just continue building—but that was the problem. The Morrows were not willing to let him continue.

He’d been pouring his personal funds into the Verdant Stag and its endeavors. The fortune he had amassed over many years was dwindling, and now the agricultural component of the plan, which had been almost ready to start production, would need another influx of funds as he rebuilt the warehouse and paid for greater security so that people were not afraid to take the jobs he offered.

He needed something that would bring in more money than cheap food for the masses, but could still be traded freely. Perhaps a product with a wealthier market, like the foodstuffs that would normally be imported from a more tropical climate. His own household budget for spices and honey was high enough that he might as well have been buying gold and silver by the ounce. Shipping was dangerous and expensive, and moving products over land had its own difficulties. In some instances, it simply wasn’t feasible. He planned to replace the roof of the warehouse with glass, which should allow him to grow at least some of those more exotic foodstuffs indoors, but this was yet another exorbitant expenditure. Nevertheless, it would avoid the need for magic to imitate the light of the sun. Over time, the cost would be less.

Liza broke him from his thoughts, murmuring, “The girl…she’s the one they’re looking for?” Her gaze was on a copper, who was questioning a store owner in the doorway of the man’s shop.

Oliver gave her a look, but didn’t respond aloud.

“That’s answer enough, I suppose,” she said. “Do not worry, I have no love for Gilbrathan law, and no need for reward money. Idiot coppers tried to question me about the whole commotion when it first happened, and I sent them packing. As if I would’ve been so sloppy with the getaway, even assuming I decided to steal from the University.”

Oliver sighed and shook his head, but he couldn’t help smiling slightly.

They made it to the Verdant Stag not long after, and Liza took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink while Oliver continued on to Katerin’s upstairs office.

Katerin froze for a moment when he walked into the room, her eyes sweeping over him for damage like a worried mother. After a second of silence, some of the strain around her eyes and in her shoulders receded. “Took you long enough,” she muttered.

“Is everyone alright? Any arrests? Did we manage to get Jameson to Healer Nidson’s?” While he spoke, he moved to the safe in the attached closet at the back of the room and began to go through the somewhat complicated process of unlocking it.

“No arrests, but a couple injuries. I have already paid Nidson.” She hesitated. “Jameson…did not make it.”

Oliver straightened and turned to face her. “What?”

“We got him to Nidson, but…his heart stopped working. Nidson restarted it, but…it wouldn’t take. Jameson died.”

Oliver stared at her, taking in the bags under her eyes and the way she leaned a hand against the back of her chair for support. “Did Nidson give him blood?”

She frowned in confusion. “No?”

He ran a hand down his face, rubbing at the skin. “Jameson, and Cooper too. Have you told their families, yet?”

She shook her head. “But word spreads quickly. They might already know.”

“We will pay for the funerals. And…” He turned back to the safe, pulling out two full coin pouches, each with one hundred gold counted out within. He slipped one into his pocket and removed thirty gold crowns from the other. He divided the thirty gold into two smaller purses and set them on Katerin’s desk. “Give their families a stipend, for the next…three years. Fifteen gold a month.” Spreading it out made it less likely for the families to be the target of a theft, and kept anyone from spending recklessly if they were the type to do so. It also put just a little less pressure on the Verdant Stag’s finances.

Katerin looked as if she wanted to disagree, but slumped instead. “I suppose they were killed working for us, and at what was supposed to be a safe job. But you cannot start compensating the family of everyone who is killed or injured in Stag territory. And what about that second purse you took?”

“Payment for Siobhan’s help. She…had a mishap. The coppers have some of her blood, and they have attempted to scry her—and failed!” he added quickly, raising his hands placatingly. “Liza is helping her, but—”

“But Liza would expect you to sell your firstborn to pay her fees, or go home if you couldn’t,” Katerin grumbled. “Oliver…you realize what this means? If they recognized her, they’re going to be digging into the whole thing much deeper than they otherwise might for a fight between two gangs. They’ll be sniffing around the Verdant Stag.”

“I know.” He clenched his fists. “But it’s too late now. We’ll pretend innocence as best we can. If they bring any of our men in for questioning, remind them to stay silent until you can get them out. If they question you personally, deny any knowledge to the point of belligerence, if you have to.”

She looked torn between screaming in anger and crying, but in the end only shook her head with exhaustion. “I hope this girl is worth it, Oliver. You’re making quite a large investment in her.”

“We will see,” he said, knowing that no words from him would actually sway her opinion. “Do you have the addresses of Cooper’s and Jameson’s next of kin?” Notifying their families of their fate was a responsibility that couldn’t wait, for honor’s sake if nothing else. When she nodded, he said, “Send someone to tell them before the day is out. Go yourself if possible.” He would have preferred to do it himself, to handle this terrible duty with the respect it deserved, but he would have to go in his mask, and that would be worse than sending another in his place.

“Are we doing anything else about what happened last night?” she asked.

He rubbed his hand over his face again. “Of course. This cannot be allowed to continue. I am accompanying Liza to the Night Market.” He ignored Katerin’s grimace of distaste when he mentioned the sorcerer’s name. “I’ll see if I can pick up a few more battle or warding artifacts there. I’m quite sure Siobhan plans to brew us an extensive series of battle potions. We need to recruit more people to the enforcers and emergency crews. Our people were ineffective out there, even considering their disadvantage. Many of them haven’t been trained well enough for this. Talk to Huntley, maybe he’d be willing to run a more thorough training program.”

“I’ll get on it right away.”

“We can only hope the injuries the Morrows sustained last night cause them to be more hesitant, rather than lashing out in a show of force. Either way, no more shifts for the workers at night. I have some other ideas, but we need more money, time, and people,” he said.

Katerin gave him a grim smile. “Well, we are working on all three things already. In the meantime, we’ll have to make do.”

Before stepping away from the safe he hesitated, then grabbed another coin purse and put it in his pocket before leaving.

“Don’t forget to replace those!” Katerin called after him. “I have those funds earmarked for expenses already.”

He grabbed a spare battle wand from their tiny armory, changed his cloak, and slipped his mask back on, then commandeered an off-duty enforcer to guard him as he left.

Liza shot a look to the man, whose eyes scanned their surroundings for threats as they walked down the street.

“We’re carrying quite a lot of money and going to some questionably safe places,” Oliver explained in a low voice. “If nothing else, the appearance of protection might deter opportunists.”

She snorted. “You realize you are walking with me, right? Anyone stupid enough to try to steal my gold will find themselves with a smoking hole through their abdomen, and the coppers daren’t come after me without at least a full squad.”

Oliver opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Right.” Perhaps the bodyguard wasn’t needed, but it couldn’t hurt, and he’d already agreed to pay the man. It would be churlish to send him back now.

When they reached the Night Market, Liza took the lead, striding to the door of The Elementary, a shop whose display window held some common spell components. The listed prices were much higher than they should have been.

Oliver motioned for their guard to stay outside, and the man posted himself beside the doorway, tracking the other occupants of the street with a suspicious gaze.

Shelves lined the walls and filled most of the small, somewhat dingy shop. Liza ignored all of that, walking to the counter in the back where a tired-looking young man was labeling a bottle of beetles. “I’m here to see Harvester.”

The shopkeep looked her and Oliver up and down, then silently pulled out a stone disk from below the counter and placed it on the surface.

Liza palmed her Conduit and pressed her other hand flat to the disk. Pieces of it shifted and turned like a puzzle, and then the center rose up.

The shopkeep nodded and turned to motion to the wall behind him. Oliver only then noticed the outline of a hidden door, flush with the wall on either side and wallpapered over. Had that been there, visible but unnoticed, the whole time, or had whatever Liza done revealed it?

He followed her through the door into a huge storeroom filled with wide, towering shelves, each of which held various exotic materials and components within glass spheres covered in spell arrays. There were the more mundane but still valuable components like dragon scales, but he also saw rare, precious things like the tiny, sleeping dryad laying in a bowl of rich dirt, or the glowing feather the size of his leg that he was pretty sure was from a creature native to the Plane of Radiance.

Still, what caused his breath to catch in his chest was not any of the fantastical things on display, but the active planar portal in a clearing in the middle of the room.

He took off his mask to stare at the portal. It was a shimmering sphere, the bottom tip of which barely touched the center Circle of the spell array inlaid in gold and white marble on the floor. Five beast cores, glowing so bright a yellow they almost seemed white, powered the spell from component Circles positioned around the main one. The sixth component Circle held what looked to be a fish made entirely of water, wriggling weakly through the air of the glass containment sphere it was trapped within.

Past the heat wave-like surface of the sphere, he could make out what looked like a coral reef and some waving seaweed, and within it, a crouched form that he mistook for a boulder until its arms moved and he realized it was a person.

Oliver turned to Liza, eyes wide. He wanted to ask a question, but for once his tongue failed him.

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow, but he noticed that the edge of her mouth quirked up as she took in his expression. “Harvester should be out soon. Even he cannot remain alive underwater indefinitely.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “I admit, I didn’t know the Night Market had a place such as this. I’m in need of some battle and protection artifacts, preferably used and recharged. Where would you suggest I go?”

“Two doors down. Tell them I sent you and that you’re new to the market. If you hurry, you might even get back in time to meet Harvester.” Something about the way she said the last sentence sounded somewhat ominous.

“Right. Will I be able to get back here, though? The magic password disk…”

“Send the shopkeep back for me, if he won’t let you through.”

Oliver put his mask back on and left, somewhat reluctantly. He motioned for his guard to stay where he was and walked two shops down. A small symbol had been carved subtly into the doorjamb—the mark of the Nightmare Pack.

The space within was more open than the previous shop, with artifacts lining the shelves on the walls, leaving the center of the room clear. A quick glance showed no restricted artifacts, only things like light crystals, self-cleaning chamber pots, and ever-inking pens. He walked up to the woman at the counter and repeated Liza’s words.

The proprietor eyed his mask, then called up their shop boy from the room at the back to take her place. She waved for Oliver to follow her into the back. “What are you looking for?” she asked.

He took a quick glance around the room, noting the items on the shelves, the boxes stacked against the back wall, and the utter lack of anything overtly suspicious. “Do you have any protective artifacts? Things that would ward against the more common battle spells? Or basic battle artifacts?”

She nodded and moved over to one of the shelves. A quick movement of her hand on the wood, and the rung flipped upside down. The items that had been on it did not slide off, seemingly stuck to it, but the new side also had items. Different items.

Oliver surreptitiously looked at the other shelves to see if there were items stuck to the bottom of them all that he simply hadn’t noticed. There were not.

The shop owner smiled. “Liza’s work. Ingenious, I thought. The coppers can raid us all they like when we refuse to pay their bribes, but there’s never any evidence.”

So that was why Liza had told him to mention her name. “She is very talented,” he agreed. If only she were also affordable, the Verdant Stags would be unstoppable. He stepped forward to examine the artifacts on the shelf, and the shop owner began to explain them.

Underneath his mask, Oliver’s face broke into a wide, foxlike grin.

There were a couple circular knuckle guards with basic shielding spells meant to ward against stunning and concussive blast spells, which were the coppers’ most common attacks. They could work together, for better defense, or individually. He took both.

She offered him a pair of gauntlets with a general-purpose energy-reflecting spell woven into their surface, but they were new, and much too expensive. He’d only brought a hundred gold to spend.

He took a bundle of spark-shooting wands, figuring they could be useful as a distraction, a signal, or even just a threat, if the user’s enemy did not know the wand held only a non-combat spell.

He turned down a ring that would open basic non-magical locks, as well as a wand that shot acid, but bought a ring that could cast a contact stunning spell. His largest purchase was a general-purpose injury protection ward that the shop owner assured him would make physical damage less likely over a radius of ninety-nine feet in every direction. Despite its price compared to the other things he had chosen, he knew such a nebulously defined spell couldn’t be very powerful, but it might still make a difference in a fight, and could be placed in the Verdant Stag or another important location, like the micro-farm he was creating.

By the end, his coin purse was completely empty. As he watched her place the artifacts in a plain bag she pulled off the wall, he said, “I noticed the mark of the Nightmare Pack by the door.”

Her movements slowed, but she nodded, peering up at him with slightly more suspicion.

“I hear the head of the Verdant Stag is interested in meeting with the Pack leader. How would I pass along that message?”

She didn’t answer immediately, instead counting out the gold he had given her and then handing him the bag. “I can send a runner,” she said finally. “Any particular message you want to pass on?”

Using the shop’s supplies, Oliver wrote a quick note, which he folded and sealed before handing to her. He flashed her one of his signature charming smiles and only belatedly remembered the mask. Perhaps he could have it spelled to mimic his expressions. Then again, a crescent smile of darkness stretching across its smooth surface might be more disturbing than humanizing…but that could be good, too.

“I hope the Stags aren’t looking to start any trouble?” she asked reluctantly.

He shrugged. “Not as far as I know, but I’m just the messenger.”

Her own mouth quirked up wryly as she took the letter. “Right.”

When he returned to The Elementary, Liza was just exiting the hidden back room, a wooden box in her arms. As the door shut behind her, Oliver caught a glimpse of the person on the other side. He’d had enough of being surprised for the day, and so managed to keep from reacting outwardly. The two of them exited the shop and began walking back toward Liza’s house, trailed by the completely superfluous guard.

Keeping his voice low, Oliver murmured, “Harvester is a troll?”

A somewhat cruel smile spread across her face. “Half-troll. How do you think he’s still alive, after so many dips into the Elemental Planes? Best supplier in the business.”

A note from AzaleaEllis

The Patreon Special Offer I'm running along with the launch of Book 1 is still going for 1 more day.

All pledges at $7 or more will receive a faux-celerium Conduit keychain (in our world it’s known as raw quartz). This level also includes early access to the next 3 chapters of the story, which is now getting into Book 2, A Binding of Blood, and all the illustrated excerpts from Siobhan’s grimoire.

Learn more here: https://www.patreon.com/azaleaellis

Next chapter on my website https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-35-planar-divination-diverting-ward/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 35 - Planar Divination-Diverting Ward

Siobhan

Month 11, Day 28, Saturday 8:00 p.m.

Siobhan had returned downstairs and gone to sleep once again while Liza and Oliver were gone. She felt more normal when she awoke from a nightmare, though the headache and foggy thoughts still lingered. When the other two returned, she was surprised to see Oliver holding the belongings she had stashed in the alley.

“We swung around on the way back to grab them,” he explained.

She smiled in thanks. “I appreciate it. I was a little worried. I’m not sure how well they were hidden.” She looked at the box of components in Liza’s arms with interest. She was excited to watch Liza cast the warding spell, and perhaps to pick up a bit more of how the Lino-Wharton messenger spell worked.

Liza brought out a slender knife and a vial. “I’ll need some of your blood.”

“My blood?” Siobhan frowned.

She snorted at Siobhan’s hesitation. “There have been two attempts to find you past my wards already. But if you cannot trust me to take your blood, you definitely cannot trust me to make this warding artifact for you.” When Siobhan relented, Liza poked her in the arm and gathered a vial. Instead of beginning to set up the spell, Liza simply deposited the vial, along with her earlier purchases, in the room below where she’d previously cast the Lino-Wharton, then announced she was going to sleep.

Siobhan opened her mouth to protest, but remembered the bags under Liza’s eyes. The woman had been tired when they arrived, and had then spent most of the day in strenuous mental exercise. Even she would be risking Will-strain to cast such a powerful spell without being fully rested. Siobhan closed her mouth and simply nodded.

Before retiring, Liza warned Siobhan not to wander, and to go downstairs immediately if her medallion gave signs that any attempts to scry her were breaking through the wards on the upper level.

“I’m going to return home,” Oliver said. “I have business to attend to, and I would like to sleep in my own bed tonight. Will you be alright here?”

“Of course. You have your bracelet. I’ll set it off if anything horrible happens.”

As he turned to the door, he frowned. “I hope they returned my horse,” he muttered.

His words reminded Siobhan of a question she had meant to ask. “Do you know if everyone is alright? Was anyone arrested?”

His step faltered, and he hesitated a little too long in replying. “No one was arrested.”

Her eyes narrowed. “But something went wrong.”

He rubbed his face and muttered, “I am in poor form today,” before turning back to her. “They managed to get Jameson to the healer, but he didn’t survive the night.”

Siobhan reached for the nearest chair and sat down heavily. “What happened? Was it because of me?”

His words began low and a little hesitant, but grew more commanding as he spoke. “His heart gave out. I don’t know why.”

She bit her lip. “Blood loss?” Her voice was almost a whisper.

“Perhaps. I don’t know what Nidson did to combat the blood loss.”

“There are potions to boost blood regeneration, but they would have taken too long for Jameson, and over-strained his body,” she muttered. “Humphries’ adapting solution could have been spelled directly into his heart to replenish the fluid in his veins, but if the healer didn’t have any on hand…”

Oliver interrupted her musings. “This time you really must not blame yourself. Needing to heal that type of injury is something you couldn’t have anticipated. Not something you could reasonably have been expected to learn how to do ahead of time. Jameson would surely have died without you, so don’t pretend that you killed him when the truth is you simply couldn’t save him.”

She straightened her spine away from the back of the chair and nodded stiffly. ‘His words ring of truth, but that does not ease my feeling of responsibility. I was called on to save, and I did not.’

“Jameson’s family will be taken care of,” he said, somewhat awkward for once.

“That’s good,” she said dully. “I—I think I will go back to sleep.”

The muscles in his jaw clenched and released, but he said only, “Alright.”

She stood and shuffled back down the stairs. Above, the door to the mundane part of Liza’s house opened and then closed again.

Siobhan had been feeling more energetic, but the news of Jameson’s death pressed a weariness into her. It was too heavy to bear in her current state. She resisted the urge to use her second Conduit, the older, poorer quality one she had used as a child, to cast a dreamless sleep spell. Pushing too hard before her Will had fully recovered would only set her back further. Besides, she was used to the nightmares. ‘And do I not deserve them?’

The next day, the sound of Liza’s voice softly chanting and the charged feel of the air drew Siobhan down the hallway to the room where Liza was casting a spell.

The woman stood in the center of a complicated spell array containing a pentagon, hexagram, and heptagram, as well as dozens of other glyphs and numerological symbols interspersed with tiny, complicated written instructions. She must have spent hours designing and transcribing the spell array. ‘Did she even sleep?’

A beast core, glowing the green of a new sprig of grass, powered the spell, along with over a dozen components. Liza held sticks of incense in each hand, and was chanting and waving them through the air in a carefully coordinated motion that left trails of smoke that looked almost like glyphs.

Light pulsed through the lines drawn on the floor in wax and blood, like the heartbeat of a mammoth animal. She recognized some of the components, like the silver mirror, five knots of wood, five finger bones, and the dead fox with large black beans where its eyes used to be and in its mouth.

Others were more exotic, like the things Liza was using to represent and draw power from the five Elemental Planes. There was a salamander made of fire, what seemed to be a living bubble with dozens of waving tentacles sprouting from it at every angle, a large pill millipede made of dirt, a creature that she couldn’t quite make out because it was transparent and flying quickly about the confines of its component Circle, and a white fuzzy moth whose glow made Siobhan’s eyes tear up despite not being that bright.

Other things Siobhan had no reference for at all, like the vial of liquid that seemed to be still moving within the glass, not swirling about and confined, but rushing by, as if the vial was not a container at all but a window into a little portion of river. Or the straw doll cloaked in what looked to be kreidae spider silk, the cloth almost entirely invisible, with a stark dot of blood drawn on its head instead of a face.

Siobhan stayed outside the room and watched as the spell-casting went on and on. After a few minutes, the knots of wood and finger bones combined, leaving five small, textured disks behind. Then the rest of the components began to disintegrate, Liza chanting faster and faster and drawing her smoke runes ever more quickly.

Eventually, only the beast core and the life forms from the Elemental Planes were left. Liza’s voice was hoarse by then, but she never stopped, even as her voice cracked and her words turned to rasps. The creatures seemed to be distressed by the spell, moving faster and probing at the edges of the Circles containing them, but there was no escape. Each melded with one of the bone-and-wood disks and disappeared.

Liza slowed, then, but still did not stop for several more minutes.

It was only when the heaviness lifted from the air that Siobhan realized her heart was pounding as if she had been sprinting, and her fingers trembled by her side. Magic had a terrible and glorious beauty. ‘I can’t imagine anything better, more worthwhile, in the stars above or planes beneath.’

Liza was panting heavily as she turned to Siobhan. She didn’t seem surprised by her presence, though she hadn’t acknowledged Siobhan in the least while casting. “Pick up the artifacts and bring them upstairs. I’m going to get a cuppa.”

Siobhan complied. The disks were thinner than she had expected, one solid piece despite the wood and bone being marbled together. She imagined she could feel the warmth of power within them.

Upstairs, Liza emerged from her side of the house with a steaming cup of tea, then rummaged in one of her cabinets till she found a device that consisted of a series of glass balls and lenses at adjustable distances from each other. She set it on the table, turned on a light crystal, and took the disks from Siobhan.

With tools the size of needles, she began to carve on the surface of the disks, creating a spell array that was simpler than the one she had used to cast the spell in the first place, but still so complicated it barely fit.

Knowing that she would need to help Liza cast the messenger spell soon, Siobhan moved to the couch and closed her eyes, slowly bringing her Will to bear, not on a spell but on the rhythms and warmth of her own body. She was gentle, pulling and prodding at her control to make sure there were no points of serious pain or strain remaining.

Her head began to throb again, but the pain was dull, and her thoughts were not as slow as they had been when her Conduit first broke. As long as she didn’t bring the full force of her Will to bear, joining a mnemonic link to Liza’s tracking spell shouldn’t be difficult. In fact, it might even be easier, since she had grown more powerful since the last time. If not for the possibility that they had moved her father since her previous contact with him, they wouldn’t have needed to add a tracking function to the messenger at all.

It took Liza a couple hours to finish all five of the ward disks. When she did, she sat back and rubbed at her tired eyes, then got another cup of tea. Finally, she turned to Siobhan.. “I hope you are not afraid of a little pain,” she said with an ominous gleam in her eyes. “It’s time to insert these beneath your skin.”

Siobhan eyed the disks, glad that Liza hadn’t made them larger. “I’m ready. Where will we put them?”

“On your back, I think.”

“What happens if I fall, or something hits me?”

“They won’t break, don’t worry.”

Siobhan took off her shirt and turned her back to Liza, who held a small athame in her hand. She balled up her shirt and shoved part of it into her mouth, biting down.

“Don’t move,” Liza warned, and began to cut.

Siobhan gasped and couldn’t help screaming a little through the cloth in her mouth. The cut was painful, but the feeling of something foreign sliding underneath her skin was worse, not only painful but also unnerving.

Liza began to speak, perhaps to distract Siobhan from the pain. “I call it a planar diversion ward. The artifact was created with your blood, and should settle into your body’s ecosystem without trouble, so we don’t need to worry about attempted rejection. Like your grandfather’s ward, this will activate automatically when any sort of divination is attempted toward you. It will work unaided against weaker spells, but will require your guidance and Will to augment it against more determined attempts. With the sheer efficiency of the design and its connection to the five Elemental Planes, you should be able to stymie attempts by those magnitudes more powerful than you, as long as your Will is clear, sound, and forceful.”

Liza repeated the process of inserting the disks four more times, one for each corner of the pentagram, the top disk sliding under the skin at the base of Siobhan’s neck. When she was finished, she wiped up the blood with a rag and used a couple salves that left the slices in her back nothing more than thin scars next to slightly firmer places on her skin.

Then, she drew a final spell array on Siobhan’s back and made her lay down while she cast an augmented healing spell, reattaching the flow of blood through the disks. “Your blood will act as Sacrifice, so no need to prepare anything else. If all goes well, even with heavy use the spells within should last for a few decades,” she said with pride. “It is a masterwork.”

Siobhan shuddered and moved around to test the feel of the new additions to her back. They still hurt, and she imagined they would for a while, until her body grew used to them.

“Let us test it,” Liza said, taking a crystal ball off a shelf and heading back downstairs.

Siobhan helped her to clean up the spell array on the floor of the casting room, and then Liza spent a couple minutes drawing the array for a rudimentary scrying spell. She dropped the dirty, bloody rag in the component Circle that called for a tracking link, the beast core from the earlier spell in the powering section, and the crystal ball in the center. “You will feel the pressure when I attempt to scry you. The artifact is connected to your body, so all you need to trigger it is your Will and a Conduit.”

The only other artifact Siobhan had ever heard of that could be controlled with Will alone was the transmutation amulet that hung around her neck, though it didn’t even have any components that she could tell. ‘Does that mean its creator was at least a Grandmaster of artificery? Perhaps they were even an Archmage.’ The thought sparked a feeling she couldn’t quite label.

“Remember, this ward is not meant to directly oppose a scrying spell. It turns aside, deflects, and hides you instead, which is what will allow a sorcerer as weak as you to successfully overcome the much stronger casters the coppers can supply. You should be careful of using it when people in your immediate vicinity are already focused on you, as some of the effects may spill over into your physical surroundings. People will be less likely to notice you and find it harder to focus on you while it is active, and this could lead to suspicion among the observant.” With that, she took out her Conduit and began to cast.

Siobhan felt the pressure of Liza’s attention immediately, as if a giant eyeball with thousands of tentacles hung in the air above her, the tentacles closing in. She held the small, cloudy Conduit that she hadn’t used since she was a child and pushed her Will into the artifact on her back. She was careful not to push too hard, both because she wasn’t fully healed from the Will-strain, and because this Conduit couldn’t channel more than a hundred thaums. She sincerely did not want to experience the backlash of a failed Conduit, again.

She felt the effects of the ward take hold. The mental sensation of pushing aside notice was difficult to describe, except that she felt like one of the fey, who were supposedly so agile they could dance between the raindrops without ever being hit. The five spots on her back stung as if being poked by a few dozen needles, repeatedly.

Liza dropped the spell, tossing the bloody rag into the brazier in the corner and setting it alight. “It works. I was using at least eight hundred thaums there, and I still couldn’t bring your image or location into clarity, and it had nothing to do with the wards around my house.”

Siobhan grinned, reaching a hand back to rub at the disks under her skin, which felt a little cool for a few seconds after Liza stopped casting. She ran up the stairs again to examine her back in the large silver mirror against one of the walls. The flesh around the disks had already regained most of its color by the time she reached it. “Let’s try another type of divination!” she called back down the stairs as Liza followed at a slower pace.

Liza raised her eyebrows. “Sure. If you’d like to pay me for additional work.”

Siobhan clamped her mouth shut immediately and put her shirt back on, but she couldn’t help the giddy feeling inside or the upward twitch of her lips. This was magic, real magic, and it belonged to her. “Can I activate it without a divination attempt to deflect?” She tried it before Liza could answer, deflating a little when it didn’t work.

“No,” The woman confirmed, then muttered something that sounded like, “greedy and unappreciative of my genius.”

‘I won’t be able to use it to sneak around without being noticed, then. Well, not unless I could somehow purposefully trigger a scrying attempt…’ She would have to test what types of minor divination were recognized by the ward, and then see if there was some way to cast them into a potion or simple artifact of her own. Still, her biggest priority had been achieved.

The coppers would not have her.

“This is wonderful, Liza. Thank you.” She pushed her sincerity into her voice. “I can’t wait till I’m as knowledgeable and powerful as you.”

Liza snorted. “I wouldn’t hold my breath until then, child,” she said, but she covered her small smile with her teacup.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-36-conception-of-the-raven-queen/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 36 - Conception of the Raven Queen

Thaddeus

Month 11, Day 29, Sunday 3:00 p.m.

Thaddeus exited the hired carriage at the edge of the cordoned-off crime scene, handing the driver a few coins.

A copper stationed at the edge of the cordon stopped Thaddeus, but Titus Westbay, who’d been the one to call him away from the University in the first place, waved the copper down.

“It’s alright, he is here on my behalf,” Titus said, lifting the bright yellow barrier rope so Thaddeus could duck under it.

“What exactly is so important it necessitated I come in person with such urgency?” Thaddeus asked, looking at the coppers milling about the section of street in front of a half-collapsed building.

“I would have called in a whole Red Guard team, if I could get them,” Titus said.

“An Aberrant did this?” Thaddeus asked, though he didn’t see how that could have happened without his knowledge.

“No, a sorcerer. The same woman we’ve been looking for, we believe.”

Thaddeus raised his eyebrows with interest. “She escaped again?”

Titus clenched his jaw. “Yes. The pressure to arrest her is mounting, and this is the first new lead we’ve had in months. We managed to get some of her blood, but so far she has warded against our initial scrying attempts. Eventually I have no doubt we will break through, but…I cannot take any chances. The scrying may be enough for her to finally leave Gilbratha, and that will only make our job harder. I thought maybe you would notice something the rest of us don’t, because of your experience. She is a blood magic user, after all, even if the incident wasn’t enough to get the Red Guard called in. Even if you cannot help, an extra set of eyes will do us no harm.”

Thaddeus stood still a moment, letting his eyes rove over everything. Coppers milled about, collecting evidence in Shipp stasis cubes, flagging spots of interest, and combing through the rubble of the half-collapsed building. At the edge of the cordon, coppers shooed away curious onlookers.

Thaddeus had always had a greed for knowledge, and even better if that knowledge was not commonly disbursed. “I will consult only. I have neither the free time nor the inclination to be an unpaid Investigator as well as a University Professor.”

Titus smiled widely, looking suddenly younger, and waved over another man. “This is Investigator Kuchen, the man in charge of things on the ground for this case.”

Investigator Kuchen bowed slightly to Thaddeus, a handkerchief covering his mouth as he coughed wetly. “Professor Lacer. While I don’t know what a professor can bring to this investigation that our professional analysts cannot, I bow to Lord Westbay’s opinion in this matter. Please be aware of the confidential nature of all you see here.”

Apparently the inspector didn’t want him there, and was poorly informed about who he was talking to, to boot. Foolish. Thaddeus gave him a deadpan stare and replied only, “Investigator Kuchen,” with a nod. He turned to Titus, who was as arrogant as the rest of his kind, but at least recognized Thaddeus for what he was, in some small part, and would not be so reckless as to disrespect him to his face. “What is the situation? Walk me through it.”

Titus gestured down the street and moved to lead the way. “Very early Saturday morning, one of the local gangs, the Morrows, attacked this warehouse with a team of magicians and at least one sorcerer. This is currently Verdant Stag territory.”

Investigator Kuchen interjected, “It was Morrow territory until recently. There have been a few altercations between the two gangs, likely over territory disputes.”

“The Verdant Stags recently put up an alert system in their territory,” Titus continued, “so they quickly got word that something was happening and sent a team in to stop the Morrows. That team failed, in large part due to a warding artifact held by the attackers, allowing the Morrow sorcerer to cast a spell to destabilize and collapse the warehouse. The area where the damage originated was divined by one of our prognos, and it is likely the effect was greatly enhanced by an artifact of some sort, rather than achieved purely by the sorcerer’s power. However, the same cannot be said of our true target.”

“One Siobhan Naught?” Thaddeus asked.

Titus looked only mildly surprised. “Indeed. I see word is getting around.”

“Well, you’re not the only ones who have spoken to her accomplice. Many feel no need for the same investigative confidentiality as the coppers.”

Titus grimaced. “This kind of thing does bring out the greed in people.”

“That may not be her real name,” Kuchen said. “It’s possible she assumed that identity at some point before the theft. It’s my opinion that Ennis Naught may have been hypnotized in some way. Perhaps Siobhan Naught never existed, or passed away some time ago. Of course, there’s always the possibility that he’s simply unaware that his daughter was replaced.”

“You think she may be a skinjacker?” Thaddeus asked. “It seems unlikely. There is evidence that she’s a powerful sorcerer, no? Those two things do not often go together.”

Kuchen shrugged. “Not often doesn’t mean never. And even if she’s not a skinjacker, I think it’s quite clear that she is no nineteen-year-old girl without any formal training in the thaumaturgic arts. The codename Raven Queen is catching on. She seems to be partial to that symbology,” he said darkly.

Thaddeus resisted the urge to mock the man. “That moniker seems a little dramatic. It begs fear and respect, rather than encouraging hostility or the kind of resolve that will see her caught and defeated.”

Titus nodded. “I agree. It’s not official, but I’m afraid I’ve heard the name bandied about half a dozen times already today. And I may not like it, but I do understand. She’s mysterious, powerful, and more than a little frightening. The kind of person that makes you check under your bed before turning off the lights, just in case.”

That seemed extreme, even with what Thaddeus had heard about her. “I think you had better continue your explanation of what happened.”

“Yes. Less than half an hour after the initial Verdant Stag team failed to stop the attack, she arrived in the company of a masked man we suspect may be the leader of the Stags. We’ve not been able to get our hands on any of the Verdant Stag members who were here, but we did question the workers who were in the warehouse, as well as the members of the Morrow attackers who we were able to bring in. Their accounts line up, with a few allowances for personal reinterpretations and the chaos and fear of the fight, as well as the lowered visibility. Naught and her accomplice appeared in the empty bell-tower gazebo without warning. The Morrows insist she appeared in a flash of lightning.”

“More likely they simply did not notice her until the lightning illuminated her form,” Thaddeus said.

“Yes. However,” Kuchen said, pausing to cough wetly into his handkerchief, “we are not discounting the possibility that she has some sort of movement or instant travel ability.”

Thaddeus sneered. “Teleportation is a thing of myths.”

“Well, casting spells with your spell array written in the very air is also a thing of myths,” Titus said, his voice subdued.

“What?” Thaddeus blurted before he had a chance to think better of it. He brought a bit of his Will to bear, guiding his thoughts and reactions toward controlled, rational channels. It would not do to let his logic be pushed aside for hasty conclusions and the sway of poorly understood “facts.”

“All of the eyewitness accounts corroborate it,” Titus said. “She stood at the edge of the roof, a spell array glowing in the air above her palm as she shot the Morrows with exploding balls of glass, which bypassed their barrier artifact’s wards completely. Their wounds are consistent with the reports as well.”

“She is a free-caster,” Thaddeus murmured.

“Part of why I thought you might have some insight,” Titus agreed.

“Free-casters have no need to write the spell array in the air. The Word is held in our mind. To hold the Word on the air instead would have only increased the difficulty of her spell. Unless there was some unknown utility to doing so, I have to assume that she wanted people to know what she was capable of.” But who, exactly, was the message for? He looked up at the empty bell-tower, then down to the warehouse across from it. He noted the placement of the flags marking spots of interest, imagining the scene in his mind. “Did she kill any of the Morrows?”

“No,” Titus said. “Injuries only, though one came close to bleeding to death. You think she let them live on purpose?”

“Undoubtedly.” The question was why? Speculation was useless at this point. He didn’t know enough about her motivations or the situation that had led to her protecting the workers. “What was in the warehouse?”

Investigator Kuchen flipped through a sheaf of papers. “It was just an indoor garden, not yet fully set up. The most suspicious thing about it is that the real ownership is still unclear, run through a number of proxies. We’re looking deeper, but I expect we will simply find it is owned by one of the Stags. There’s no evidence that anything untoward was happening inside. The workers themselves weren’t even members of the gang.”

If nothing nefarious was planned for the site, why the secrecy? “I want to see.”

Carefully, the three of them walked into the warehouse, avoiding the evidence flags and broken glass scattered everywhere.

“Once she had driven off the Morrows, Naught and the masked man descended and entered the warehouse. The witnesses say the two of them claimed to be there to help, and acted to try to save an injured worker’s life,” Titus said.

Kuchen snorted, a deliberate sound of disbelief rather than a symptom of whatever respiratory illness had him hacking so disgustingly. “Their naivety astounds me.”

Titus grimaced again. “Yes, well…I cannot imagine they were in any position to refuse her help, ill-intentioned as it might have been.”

Thaddeus noted the chalk outline of a body and the gore-covered, splintered end of a support beam. “One of them died? Anyone of note?”

“One Bobby Cooper,” Kuchen said, again consulting his notes. “Our investigation has uncovered nothing of interest about the man or those closely related to him.”

“What about the one who was bleeding to death?” Thaddeus said, motioning to the half washed-away bloodstain on the ground. “This was the one they supposedly tried to save?”

Kuchen looked at him in surprise, even though it had been an exceedingly simple deduction, then said, “Harry Jameson. He had been hit by a slicing spell from one of the Morrows’ contraband battle wands, at the base of the neck, and was in the process of bleeding out when she arrived. The workers had been trapped inside. She claimed that he needed a blood donation, and took a drop from each of the other workers. To find matching blood, she said.”

Titus’s lips flattened grimly. “You can see remnants of the blood-transferring spell array, there,” he said, pointing to faint lines of chalk on the ground, almost completely washed away by the rain.

“Did your prognos reconstruct it?” Thaddeus asked.

Kuchen handed Thaddeus a piece of paper with a simple spell array, his reluctance to share information seeming to have melted away. “This is their best guess.”

Thaddeus frowned. “It is simplistic.” Not that she would have needed to write it down at all, as a free-caster, but there was nothing to keep the blood from clotting or gathering contaminants during the transfer process. It would kill the patient. Of course, she could have handled that part mentally, but if she was going to do that, why take the time to write the spell down at all? “I suspect there is more going on here than we understand.”

“She didn’t actually transfer any blood to him,” Kuchen said. “The Verdant Stag sent a backup team, and apparently she used some potions they had brought in lieu of the blood transfer, and then some other healing spell to fuse the wound back together. But she had none of the standard healing components. That spell array has been washed away beyond recovery, but we suspect she may have used blood magic to control his flesh. We don’t know what her goal was, since she aborted the spell when the coppers arrived. The workers escaped with Jameson and took him to a nearby healer’s on a horse left by Naught’s male companion. Jameson died there, before the sun rose.”

“So in the end, all we know for sure is that she collected a sample of the other workers’ blood,” Thaddeus added.

Kuchen paled. “Yes. They say she had picked up a shard of glass and mixed a drop of each of their blood with a drop of Jameson’s atop it. Do you think…some sort of linking curse, meant to be powered with his life?”

“Perhaps.” Thaddeus could think of a dozen nefarious purposes for a drop of willingly-given blood. It was one of the reasons all licensed healers were required to give a vow that they would never keep the bodily fluids or shedding of their patients, or allow others to do so. How could you trust yourself in their hands, if they could use a drop of blood or strand of hair to blackmail every patient they healed?

Kuchen swallowed heavily, then said, even more hoarsely than normal, “Do you think it was successful? She didn’t get to finish, we think. She attacked our first response team when they arrived, and was almost captured. She had to flee, and we might still have caught her, if not for the storm.”

“I don’t have enough evidence to form an opinion,” Thaddeus said. “Was there anything else of note?”

“She cast an unknown spell on the first response team,” Titus said heavily. “She used a couple of low-powered battle philtres to cover for the escape of the workers through one of the back windows, and then went into the alley and… We’re not sure if it was a conjuring, or maybe an illusion.”

“What were the spell’s effects?” he asked impatiently.

“She free-cast it. Without the glowing spell array hanging in the air this time. The first responders described it as a cloaked form of pure blackness, nine feet tall, and with a beaked face, as if it were wearing a plague doctor’s mask. Ravens burst out of it and disappeared into the shadows, moving as if to circle around and attack the coppers.”

“A—a couple of the men said they felt the ravens fly through them,” Kuchen stammered. “They felt the cold of it. And I heard Elmer talking about nightmares this morning. He said he saw the creature in his dreams, and his shadow…detached from him and grew feathers. Elmer has a drop of water elemental blood somewhere in his ancestry. He’s always had a touch of diviner’s sight.”

“Call him in for questioning,” Titus said. “I want all the coppers who interacted with her off the case, under isolated observation. Let’s get a healer to do a thorough exam, and I want our best prognos doing a full divination to try to figure out what she did to them. Maybe a shaman, too.”

Thaddeus frowned. It was the right call, to be cautious, of course, but he still felt like a piece of the puzzle—or several pieces—were missing. “Is there anything else? Something you may have forgotten to mention?”

“We are still questioning people who live or work in the area, and trying to uncover any small piece of evidence we could have missed on the scene. The combination of a philtre of stench and the rain made the scent hounds useless, but we have our best prognos trying to track her escape physically. There may have been more evidence, but with the rain…” Titus shook his head.

“You said you got her blood?”

Titus motioned to the edge of the alley running beside the warehouse.

With a last look around the interior of the warehouse, Thaddeus exited, moving to look around the mouth of the alley.

Kuchen looked to his notes again. “One of our men got her with a grasping-tentacles spell. She fell on some shards of glass that had broken off the windows, and bled. It was a stroke of fortune that one of the men even noticed it and managed to gather the blooded glass safely before the rain hit.” Kuchen’s eyes narrowed. “Now that I say it aloud, it seems awfully coincidental that the rain broke at such a convenient moment. If it had happened a minute or two earlier, she would have gotten away entirely.”

Titus turned to Thaddeus. “Do you think it is possible she could have used such large-scale weather magic?”

Thaddeus hummed absentmindedly, looking at the alley, then out at the street again, trying to reconstruct the scene in his mind. “It would have required powerful allies, as well as impeccable timing and foreknowledge. It is not impossible, but it seems like rather a lot of effort for what turned out to be a relatively minor altercation, all things considered.”

He strode into the street. “Take me up there,” he said, pointing to the bell-tower atop the roof opposite the warehouse.

They climbed carefully up the hastily-patched circular stairs, and Thaddeus crossed his arms as he looked down on the people milling around busily below, imagining standing against the clawing wind and lightning-cracked sky while raining down attack spells on them. “The man she was with. Tell me about him.”

“He wore a mask,” Kuchen said. “The workers described it as blank-featured, with a pit of shadows beneath it rather than flesh and blood. They believed him to be the leader of the Verdant Stags, and one did note that he commanded the Stag team, which leads credence to the assumption. We’ve had other reports of an individual matching his general description before, a couple times in altercations with the Morrows.”

“I assume you have questioned the Verdant Stags about this?”

“Yes, of course. The manager—the one who handles the day-to-day operations—denies any knowledge of the Raven Q—of Naught, I mean.” Kuchen coughed, though Thaddeus wasn’t sure if it was because of his illness, or a self-conscious reaction to his verbal slip. “She accused us of obscuring the real issue of Morrow aggression on innocent civilians who just happen to live and work in the wrong place, and expressed doubt that Naught was actually there at all. Hogwash, of course, but there’s not much we can legally do to put pressure on her.”

“Do the Stags have a history suggesting they have a powerful sorcerer among their ranks?”

“On the contrary,” Kuchen said. “Magicians, at most. Small territory, relatively new organization, and to all accounts very little criminal activity, other than the enforcer teams carrying contraband artifacts and battle potions.”

“This is what I have gathered,” Thaddeus said. “Naught appeared to intercede between a small gang and a group of innocent civilians, accompanied by what observers believed to be a man wearing a mask.”

“Believed to be?” Kuchen whispered, staring at Thaddeus in mounting horror.

Thaddeus gave a small shrug. “His face was not seen. Perhaps he was indeed a man. Perhaps he was able to call in a favor, and she came to his aid, and fully intended to heal Jameson but was simply interrupted before she could do so. Or, perhaps the darkness beneath the mask was not an illusion, and what walked beside her was a companion of another sort.”

Titus looked at him sharply, and Thaddeus nodded silently. Perhaps this was a job for the Red Guard after all.

Kuchen looked between them with confusion, seeing the silent exchange but not understanding it.

Thaddeus sighed impatiently. “I am saying we do not know. Please refrain from jumping to conclusions without supporting evidence, in any direction.”

Titus nodded, waving his hands impatiently. “Please continue, Professor Lacer.”

“She displayed her prowess as a free-caster conspicuously, unmistakably, and yet fired off only warning shots, leaving all of the enemy gang members to escape. She then descended with her companion, and claimed the intention to save them and heal their injured. She claimed this required blood from each of them, which she collected, but no donation of blood to Jameson was actually completed. Despite this, she cast what seemed to be a healing spell on the dying man.” He motioned to Kuchen. “I hope you requisitioned the body. You’ll want to inspect it thoroughly.”

The man nodded hurriedly, and Thaddeus continued. “This healing spell was cast without any of the standard components. If you can find a competent one, you might call in a shaman to help the workers recall the spell array and try to reconstruct it. However, I caution against depending on anything you might uncover through that. After all, as a free-caster, she has no need of physical spell arrays at all, which means any spell she took the time to lay down physically was either so magically intensive that she needed the help to stabilize it, or was something she placed deliberately, to be seen.”

“So she could have cast a completely different spell than the Word might have us believe,” Titus murmured.

“Then, when law enforcement arrived, she abandoned her seeming attempts to help, allowed Jameson to be taken away with the others, and attacked the coppers with an unknown spell, which may have ongoing effects on those exposed to it. Then, she was seemingly hit by return fire and injured herself, making a critical mistake by leaving her blood for one of the coppers to find. She and her companion both escaped into the night, and despite having her blood, you have been unable to successfully divine her location. If not for the rest of it, I might have thought she is still a young free-caster, and maybe she exhausted herself with that initial display and needed to resort to more traditional methods afterward. But the fact that she was then able to free-cast the spell that brought forth this raven-creature of darkness undoes that theory entirely.”

Kuchen shook his head. “The men said she raised her hands, and it rose from the shadows, black as pitch. She held her hands together to form the Circle. It was definitely free-cast, unless it was contained in some subtle artifact, which seems unlikely for that kind of spell.”

Thaddeus looked carefully at both men. “She is far from incompetent. So what did this night accomplish? We cannot assume that whatever it was she wanted, she failed to achieve.”

It was intriguing, really. He wondered what kind of mind was behind it all. Had she been amused, knowing how she would send those who believed themselves to be powerful and influential scattering like ants from a kicked mound? Did she feel the thrill of power at her fingertips when she cast spells others had never heard of before, recovered from the annals of time or the birth of her own experimentation? He looked forward to seeing what she would do next, and found himself suddenly quite curious about what had been in the ancient text she stole from the University. Surely it must have held more than historical importance, and he doubted someone of her power had any need to do jobs for others in exchange for something so mundane as gold.

No, he was suddenly quite sure she had stolen the text for herself, and had done so because it held precious knowledge that the University wanted to keep secret. Knowledge that the Crowns surely wanted as well, which was why Titus was being pressured so to find her. Thaddeus decided not to ask about it, not now, or from these two. Partially because he had no desire to let on that he’d realized the games being played by the Crowns and the University against each other, but also because what exactly she’d been motivated to steal might be an important clue to capturing this free-casting sorcerer, of which Kuchen, at least, was likely to be ignorant.

Thaddeus had been curious about whatever the decimated archaeological team had managed to retrieve from the Black Wastes. He had heard unsubstantiated rumors that they had discovered Myrddin’s hermitage, which he’d thought ridiculous, but he had still applied to be part of the expedition. The University had denied him.

He had been irritated, and thought with some vindictiveness that perhaps if he had gone, the expedition would not have been reduced to a tenth of its initial numbers, with two of those three needing access to a mind healer from the stress. But he had still requested clearance to examine their findings. He had been denied again, pending a review by the University’s History department, supposedly because some of the books and artifacts were likely to be cursed. As if he was too incompetent to recognize and disable a curse that had degraded over hundreds or thousands of years. At that point, he suspected he was being blocked by one of the professors who happened to hold a grudge against him. Munchworth, perhaps. The man had always been agitated by the evidence that Thaddeus might be more proficient in the field of Titanic history and lore than Munchworth, who taught the subject.

Thaddeus had known they uncovered something valuable, but he had still been skeptical that it was as personally valuable as his own research, which was more than enough to take up all his free time. Not everyone held his standards of a worthy goal, after all. He had put aside his curiosity for the time being, sure that he would learn any useful secrets eventually, but now his interest was revived.

Titus clenched his jaw. “We cannot trust anything. She could have planted every piece of evidence deliberately. It—it might not have even been her blood we gathered.”

“Or not,” Thaddeus reminded. “Perhaps she is only playing with you, wanting you to doubt even the truth in front of your eyes, to hesitate to act on real evidence.”

“She is arrogant, reckless,” Titus agreed.

“So far, it seems that she can afford to be.”

“Do you think…” Kuchen swallowed again. “Are we sure that any of the witness reports are reliable? That creature of darkness, and the man-seeming figure beside her… She had time to kill everyone there, but she let them walk away, except for Cooper and Jameson. Could she have had time to do…other things to them?”

“Well,” Thaddeus said, suppressing the small smile that kept trying to creep onto his face. “It seems to me that you cannot be sure of anything at all.”

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

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Chapter 37 - An Abridged Farewell

Siobhan

Month 11, Day 28, Saturday 11:00 p.m.

“You should stay the night here. I need rest before we cast the messenger spell, and you do as well, as I feel quite certain you will need to stave off more scrying attempts within short order once you leave this place,” Liza said.

Siobhan agreed readily, hoping to have a chance to peruse Liza’s small library now that her mind was working properly again.

Liza must have caught her gaze on the books, because she said, “They are warded against any hand but my own. Of course, I could loan one or two out to you, if you didn’t remove them from these walls. For a fee.”

Deflated, Siobhan ate the simple dinner Liza provided and returned to the cot downstairs for the night, begrudgingly admitting to herself that she really did need the mental reprieve. Casting even small spells with Will-strain was difficult and dangerous.

The next day, Siobhan worked on her homework that didn’t require spell-casting or access to the library. Liza didn’t make an appearance until the sun was already setting.

Scowling over a dark, steaming cup of tea, Liza tossed a reference book to Siobhan and had her help draw the Lino-Wharton messenger spell array, rolling her eyes at Siobhan’s look of gleeful avarice as she perused the spell instructions.

Siobhan didn’t push herself overly hard while creating the mnemonic link to the tracker part of the spell, and Liza had the entire thing finished within a little over an hour.

Siobhan put the raven back in its cage and only then realized that Oliver wasn’t there. He was dealing with the Verdant Stag’s people and maybe the coppers. For some reason, she had been thinking that he would accompany her to the prison again. She frowned at herself. ‘I do not need him. I am perfectly capable of doing things on my own. I only hope everything is alright on his end.’

She put on her cloak, made sure her dinky little child’s Conduit was easily accessible, and with a tired wave from Liza, walked out into the night. The moon was almost full again, and threw enough light down to see, even if there were no streetlamps. She made her way toward the prison, stopping before the same canal that bisected this particular stretch of Gilbratha, but in a spot a few hundred feet farther north, and thus closer to the wing Ennis’s cell lay in. She had left the luggage and school bag belonging to Sebastien in another alley for temporary safekeeping.

The raven flapped off eagerly under her mental command, the tracking spell leading it to the same windowsill as before. It seemed they had not moved him.

The raven croaked.

Ennis didn’t startle as violently as the time before, but his response to being woken from his sleep by a raven messenger was still not gentle. He cursed, holding a hand to his heart. The raven had trouble making out his expressions, but she thought he was glaring up at it. “So my daughter didna’ transform into the body of a raven and fall to her death after all,” he said. “More blood magic? That’s what they tell me this is. At least you finally decided to check in on your imprisoned father again, two months later. The Gervins tell me you ‘ave made no attempt to contact them, and they are growing distrustful that the marriage agreement I negotiated with them is even reliable!” His voice was full of accusation, and he had begun gesturing dramatically with his hands by the end.

“Keep your composure,” the raven said. “We don’t want to call the attention of the guards.”

“Maybe I should call them! You might be a little more eager to settle things with the Gervins if you were the one stuck in here shivering every night,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You always were ungrateful, but I never expected this.”

Siobhan clenched her jaw and flexed her fingers. The raven couldn’t see a ring on his finger. “I am sorry, Father,” she had the raven say, trying to keep her anger and contempt out of its tone. “My Conduit broke halfway through our previous conversation, severing the link between myself and the raven. I suffered from the backlash and have been recovering from Will-strain, and then trying to find a replacement Conduit that would allow me to contact you again. I have been helpless without it. I was able to borrow one for tonight to allow me to cast this spell. Do you have the Naught ring? If I could use it, I should be able to make myself presentable enough to contact the Gervins and get you out of here.”

“I do not ‘ave it.”

“What? Did the coppers take it off you? Or did you stash it somewhere?”

“I’m not stupid, girl. I can recognize your attempt at manipulation for what it is. You only want the ring for yourself! If I were to give it to you, you’d be gone from Gilbratha by tonight. Well, it’s too late. I used the ring as the bond for my word in the marriage agreement with the Gervins. They ‘ave it.”

She paced back and forth beside the canal, clenching and unclenching her fingers. Her skin felt hot, as if her rage was actually pushing her toward incandescence. “You would give my birthright, Mother’s ring, to another family?”

“When you marry into their family and fulfill the contract, you can just ask your husband for it. If you don’t marry him, they’ll be authorized to keep the Conduit.” Ennis’s words were filled with triumph.

She realized then that he had planned this. ‘He didn’t really think marrying me off to them was in my best interest, or something I would be remotely amenable to. He had known he was selling his daughter, and that I would be resistant to the idea, so he decided to hold my birthright hostage, the last remnant of my mother and the Conduit that would allow me to perform higher levels of magic…’ She clenched her teeth to hold back a scream, unwilling to draw attention to herself because of him.

She wanted to attack him. She briefly considered having the raven go for his face with its claws, and realized only then that the creature's neck feathers were puffed out and its wings were raised threateningly. She hadn’t meant to do that, and it brought her thoughts back in order enough for her to see the black-clad form walking her way from a couple blocks south. ‘Is that a copper?’ she wondered with alarm.

Now conscious enough to notice it, she felt faint pinpricks from the disks in her back, and an ephemeral pressure around the wrist that Liza had tied the string connecting Siobhan and the raven. It was as if someone was tugging on the other end of the string.

Without another word to her father, she commanded the raven to fly back toward her. Instead of returning to her shoulder or its cage, she directed it to dive into the dark waters of the canal, overriding its instinctive resistance to the idea.

Already hurrying away from the canal, she flinched as she felt the creature drown. ‘It was going to die soon anyway, when the spell ran out. This way, at least they won’t be able to retrieve its body like the last one.’

The anti-divination ward in her back continued to hold off the prying magic even after the bird was dead.

The sound of copper-nailed boots striking the ground as the person that had been walking her direction broke into a sprint only confirmed her suspicion. Harrow Hill Penitentiary either had a new ward that had detected the raven, or her father had alerted the guards himself.

‘The bond between us should snap once I get far enough away. That string was only a kilometer long.’

As she’d hoped, once she’d been running for a few minutes, the sense of pressure on her wrist snapped, and the disks in her back were soothed. She stopped running, but took a winding, circuitous path after that for fear that she would be tracked by more mundane means. After all, that copper had probably been able to track where she was fleeing.

She lost her pursuer more easily than she had feared, then transformed into Sebastien when she was sure she was no longer being followed or watched. She kept her face stoic as she gathered her things, made sure she looked presentable, and walked to the Verdant Stag. She paid for a meal, and then a room for the night, showing no outward recognition of Katerin or any of the others she knew from her time working with them.

She rose early on Monday and headed to the Waterside Market with the purse of a hundred coins that Oliver had given her.

The sun was just rising, and the stalls were only beginning to be set up, but the merchants were happy enough to sell to her even so, taking her orders of alchemical ingredients even if the items were not yet on display. Once again, none of them asked for her license. ‘I wonder if that’s simply due to the appearance of wealth and confidence, as I had first suspected, or if perhaps this type of rule is only loosely enforced in Gilbratha, the type of thing the coppers can use to arrest you if they decide they don’t like you, but would otherwise ignore. Well, at least for the cheap, unrestricted magical components.’ When she had gathered everything for the alchemy she intended to perform, she looked for a Conduit.

A handful of the stalls selling magical items also had Conduits, but they were of poor quality, barely better than the backup she kept from her childhood. They were good enough for a child, but not for a burgeoning sorcerer. In addition to that, the prices were preposterously high, by a multiple of three or more than what they should have been. Only someone too stupid to know better would buy any of them. Trying to suppress her frustration at the quality of yet another tiny display of cloudy celerium chunks, she turned to the shopkeep. “Is there anywhere where I can get a more powerful Conduit?”

“Orbs and Amulets. It’s a boutique at the north end of the market, a few streets up. With the way the supply is right now, that’s your best bet of finding anything clearer.” The man shrugged apologetically and gave her simple directions.

Sebastien wasn’t quite sure what a boutique was, or how it differed from a normal shop, but found the place easily enough on a well-maintained street where all the shop signs were painted with words rather than pictures, so she deduced it was accustomed to dealing with the more affluent. Which made sense. Most commoners would have no reason to buy a Conduit, especially one of any worth.

The inside of the shop was well lit, with polished marble floors and glass display cases. A pretty woman stepped forward from where she had been waiting with her hands clasped in front of her and offered to take Sebastien’s luggage, then offered her a choice of various refreshments when she refused.

“No, thank you. I just want to see your Conduits,” Sebastien said, clutching perhaps a little too suspiciously at her luggage handles, if the suppressed expression of offense on the woman’s face was any indication.

“This way, sir,” the woman said, waving elegantly at the display cases, which were lit by their own internal light crystals.

Sebastien had an increasingly bad feeling about the shop, but complied. There were no prices listed. Her feeling of apprehension grew worse.

“What level of Conduit are you looking for, sir? We have celerium from the Surior Mountains, the Charmed Highlands, and the Black Wastes, ranging from Apprentice to Grandmaster level. Do you prefer your Conduit raw, or in a gem-cut? We’ve all the most fashionable settings, if you’d like your purchase made into a wearable accessory.”

“Let me see your Apprentice Conduits, raw, and…no setting, I think.” Unless you were removing an impurity, faceting celerium did not make it any more efficient, only more sparkly. And the idea of putting it in a ring or other piece of jewelry only made her want to punch something.

The assistant brought her to one of the cases with cloudier, smaller Conduits. Still, they were almost all better than the one she had been using before, not to mention the dinky, opaque little crystal in her vest pocket at the moment.

Sebastien pointed to one in the middle of the display that was a little less cloudy than the ones on the left, but not as large or clear as the ones to the right. “How many thaums is that one rated at?”

The woman smiled brightly, already moving behind the case to unlock it and remove the Conduit. “This one is two hundred seventy thaums, from the Surior Mountains. It has some clouding in addition to the veins, but—”

“How much?” Sebastien asked, cutting off her prattling. The sun was well risen and her classes would start soon.

The woman blinked at her, then said, “One hundred thirty gold, sir.”

Sebastien’s eyes widened incredulously. “One hundred thirty gold, for a Conduit that can only channel two hundred seventy thaums?” She was aware that Conduit prices would rise steeply with increased quality and thus, rarity, but this was outrageous. Her previous Conduit, rated to two hundred fifty thaums, had been worth less than forty gold.

The woman clenched her hands together in front of her, dipping forward a little in the suggestion of a bow. “Celerium yields have been very poor this last year. With supply so low, prices have risen. I assure you, you will not find a reputable, licensed supplier selling for any less than we do.”

Sebastien briefly wondered if Oliver or Katerin could find her a disreputable, unlicensed supplier that would have better prices. ‘There is no time for that,’ she thought, looking at the level of light outside. ‘I must be in classes and entirely unremarkable in less than an hour.’ Her headache was back in full force, and the muscles in her back felt so tight they might cramp.

Perhaps she could settle for a lesser-quality Conduit for the time being. She had her old, child-level Conduit as a backup. As long as both Conduits were always touching her skin whenever she cast a spell, if the one in active use broke, she could immediately switch to casting through the secondary Conduit, with only minor risk of any adverse effects. She swallowed hard. “What about the ones in the two hundred thaum range?” She could resell the Conduit and make back at least some of what she’d spent when she was ready to buy something more suitable. As long as she didn’t break it, too. And as long as the supply of celerium had not recovered and brought prices back down to normal by then.

“They range from approximately seventy-five to eighty-five gold.”

Sebastien swallowed again. It was still outrageous, but at least she could afford it. With reluctant fingers, she pointed out one of the smaller and cloudier Conduits, rated a little over two hundred thaums and slightly cheaper than the rest because of an ugly brown spot of contamination.

After she left the shop, she paused in the alley beside it to tuck her new Conduit into the vest pocket set aside for it, and the other inside the lip of her boot, where it pressed somewhat uncomfortably against her skin.

She took a deep breath and grabbed for her luggage, but found herself having to swallow down the lump in her throat again as the knot in her chest that she’d been trying to ignore pushed itself up.

With a shuddering breath, she bent over, arms hugging her own shoulders as if to press herself back together. The tears welled up, hot and fast, and she heaved silently, sobbing without the breath to make noise. She fumbled for her new Conduit, the one in her pocket, and clenched it in her hand so hard her knuckles went white.

She scrubbed the tears away angrily, but more welled up to take their place, barely doing anything to drain the hot well of grief in her chest. She didn’t want to cry over Ennis, or any of it, really, but she was tired, and her head hurt, and it was just too much.

When she’d first come to Gilbratha, Ennis had been, to some degree, in control of her life. She’d been jerked around by his whims for a long time, and him stealing the book from the University wasn’t the first time he’d made her life harder, just the most serious. Now, he was trying to do it again, to force her to marry a man she’d never met, and who, if he was anything like Alec Gervin, she would probably despise.

Since their arrival, it seemed that for everything that had improved, there was another part of her life that had worsened. She had gotten into the University, but now the coppers were closer to catching her than ever. And unlike before, she was beholden to a criminal organization that called her out of bed in the middle of the night to get involved in deadly altercations with other gangs.

‘But I brought that problem on myself.’ The thought was strangely comforting.

She’d found a way to get into the University, and sure, that had come with strings attached, but it was a choice she’d made on her own, and one she would make again.

The coppers had her blood, but she’d found a solution to that, so everything was not ruined.

Someone had died under her insufficient care, but only because of her lack of preparedness, which was something she could rectify.

Her father was a horrible person, and he didn’t care about her. But she didn’t have to care about him, either. She didn’t have to listen to him, or let his actions affect her life.

So, maybe it was true that the overall balance of problems in her life had barely tipped for the better. But she had changed. She had gotten her hands on magic, all the knowledge the University had to offer, and she was never letting go. She was in control now. She made choices, good and bad, and could bear the consequences of both. She was no longer beholden to the whims of another, and could choose never to be so again.

Her tears had stopped.

She brought her Will to bear, not on any spell, but for the mindset that accompanied magic. ‘I am in control. The world bends to me. I do not bend for it.’ She repeated the words a couple times in her mind, then pressed her free hand to her face and cast a spell she had learned on the road from an old hedge-witch.

The mucus and slobber that had been clogging her sinuses moved, and she spat it out in a single big glob, then wiped away the tears from her face. She couldn’t be seen to be crying in the streets. ‘Thankfully, it is too early for most people to be up.’ She eyed the glob of saliva and mucus, then used the spell her grandfather had taught her to burn it and anything in it that could be used to track her into smokeless ash. It wouldn’t do to get careless.

She straightened, her Conduit still in her fist and her mind still bent toward command, grabbed her luggage, and strode off toward the University.

Sebastien did not have time to dawdle.

The story continues in A Practical Guide to Sorcery Book II: A Binding of Blood.

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A note from AzaleaEllis

This is an ending, but not the ending.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-38-competing-for-points/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 38 - Competing for Points [Book 2 Start]

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 30, Monday 8:45 a.m.

When the scrying attack hit Sebastien, she immediately began empowering her new anti-divination ward. The five artifact disks that Liza had embedded under the skin of her back consumed her blood, making the skin around them prickle like it was being stabbed with needles. This provided magical energy, which Sebastien channeled through the small Conduit pressed between her ankle and the inside of her boot, right back into the spell.

Fortunately, there were only a few stragglers still lingering around the University dorm, and they were all hurrying to gather their things before class. No one paid any attention to Sebastien.

She cursed the coppers, dropped the luggage she had been repacking into the chest at the base of her bed, and hurried toward the bathrooms. Liza had warned her that, with the ward active, anyone paying enough attention might notice a strange difficulty focusing on her, which could have very unfortunate consequences.

If things had gone even a little differently when she and Oliver went to defend his warehouse and the people inside from the attack by the Morrows, she might be fully rested, clearheaded, and relatively safe. If that last attack by the coppers, when she was trying to distract them with her shadow-familiar, hadn’t hit her, she wouldn’t have fallen and cut herself, and they wouldn’t have her blood. She could have returned to the University without fear.

And maybe, if she had gone long enough without giving them any more leads, living as Sebastien Siverling instead of Siobhan Naught, they would have given up searching for her.

Instead, she was trembling in a bathroom stall as she brought her strained Will to bear. The coppers had her blood, and if she failed, they would find her through it. If she was arrested, she would likely be executed, since they had branded her a blood magic user. Even if she somehow escaped that fate, she would forever lose her chance to study at the Thaumaturgic University of Lenore. And without the University, she might never gain the knowledge and power to become a an Archmage level sorcerer and a free-caster. The kind of power that meant she would never be vulnerable again.

The ward deflected searching tendrils of magic for the next few minutes despite the sheer power battering across the entire city through the coppers’ scrying spell. It was a stronger spell than Liza had used to test the ward’s strength, but the protective magic held.

Some part of Sebastien had hoped that the transformation into her male body might mitigate the coppers’ ability to find her through the sympathetic connection to her blood, but it seemed that was not the case. Siobhan’s blood was still her blood, even in Sebastien’s body. Which would have been interesting to know in less dire circumstances.

Panting, Sebastien rubbed the back of her neck as the stinging sensation subsided. Her head was pounding again. Not as bad as when she had first strained her Will, but bad enough that she had trouble concentrating. She wished she could neglect her classes and spend the day in bed.

Instead, she steeled herself, made sure she looked calm and alert, and hurried toward the Citadel and Professor Burberry’s classroom. She arrived a few minutes late to Introduction to Modern Magics.

Professor Burberry gave her a stern glance but said nothing as Sebastien slipped into the seat beside Anastasia.

“Are you alright?” the girl murmured to her, her eyes roving over Sebastien’s face with concern.

Sebastien realized sweat was beaded at her temples and quickly wiped it away. “Fine. A little nauseated. Lost track of time in the bathroom.”

Ana patted her hand sympathetically and pulled a potion out of her bag. “It’s for stomach cramps, but it should help slightly with nausea, too. The cafeteria food is atrocious. Really, I don’t understand why we cannot simply purchase a better meal. We have the gold for it, and you would think they’d be happy to take it. I’m going to start losing weight at this rate.”

Sebastien took the vial and stared at it bemusedly. ‘Great. There’s no reasonable way for me to decline this. I hope it doesn’t have side effects on someone who’s perfectly healthy.’ Aloud, she said, “Can it be taken on an empty stomach?” When Ana nodded cheerfully, Sebastien suppressed her misgivings and took a swallow.

Having satisfied the other girl, Sebastien settled into her ruse, hiding her fatigue as completely as she could. Though for once, her mind wasn’t on her classes. ‘It was well done to request Liza’s help with the ward against divination. If not for that, my time at the University would definitely be up.’ She shuddered at the thought. Finding information on the coppers’ scrying procedure and capability was a priority, as soon as she could slip away to do so.

‘If I had known how all this would turn out, would I have stayed in bed when Oliver activated my bracelet’s alarm? What would have happened to Jameson without me? He would probably still be dead.’ Setting that thought forcefully aside, she consoled herself. ‘It is possible that things could have gone worse if I wasn’t there.’ If she was honest with herself—and she tried to be—she would still go with Oliver knowing what she knew now. She would just perform better the second time around.

During the lunch period, she ate quickly, then went back to the dorms and made herself a strong cup of wakefulness brew from some tea leaves she had stashed in her trunk, as the basic meal options didn’t cover such “luxuries” as caffeine.

When she arrived at Practical Casting, she was finally more awake, though her heart was beating a little too fast and her chest held a sour tightness.

Sebastien did a double take after entering the classroom. Something was off. She frowned, looking around quickly, and then realized that the classroom seemed to have shrunk. She had noted on the first day that this was the biggest class, both in room size and number of students. Though that remained the case, with hundreds of students drawn by the allure of free-casting, over the first few weeks many people had stopped coming, leaving empty desks behind. Those desks were gone now, and the back wall seemed to have contracted toward the front.

Her muscles tensed with unease, and without quite realizing it, she had taken her Conduit from her pocket. Walking around the room and examining the doorway showed tracks, and she realized with awe that the dividing walls that broke up each floor of the Citadel into classrooms could be moved, shifted forward or back to change the size of the individual rooms. Constructing a building with such capabilities, at this scale, was a feat she doubted could have been accomplished without impressive magic.

She took her seat, close to the front of the room on the side farthest from the door, and waited.

A few more students arrived after her, but no one else seemed to notice the classroom’s modification. At least, if they did, they weren’t particularly surprised by it, instead chattering with their fellow students or hurrying to complete homework before the class started.

Professor Lacer strode in dramatically, his trench coat flapping helplessly behind him. He was a tall man with a hawkish gaze, and he kept his dark hair pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck. The hair of his short-trimmed beard was always a little wild, as if it was afraid of him and trying to escape his face. He stopped in the middle of the lecture stage, ran his eyes over the students, and nodded to himself. “Those of you remaining are those who will not be leaving my class because of unwillingness to put in the work. You may be lacking, but at least you have shown dedication, and you should have enough experience to avoid Will-strain with some more strenuous spell-casting. Now, it is time to make you stronger.” There were some murmurs of excitement, and he waved them to silence. “How does a sorcerer become stronger?”

He paused as if waiting for an answer, but continued when no one spoke. “Through adversity. You are going to learn how to fight with your Will, and once you do, you will compete to see which of you is strongest. The winner will receive fifty University contribution points. Before you lament the unfairness of competing against those with more capacity, let me add that this competition will be broken up into brackets. There will be thirty points for the winners of each of the weaker brackets, for those of you who started out with less experience but have still managed to prove your determination.”

He opened a cabinet behind his desk and pulled out a box of small tea candles, which he sat on his desk. “You have been practicing a spell to introduce movement to a small metal ball. In this augmented exercise, one of you will attempt to force the ball into motion while your opponent counters you, trying to keep it still.”

He placed one candle on his desk and touched the edge with the tip of his finger. The wick sprang into flame. “In the real world, when you are casting practically, you may find that you do not have a convenient beast core or bonfire readily available to cast your spell, and yet, you must still cast. If your Will is a pipe, and your goal is to channel enough water through it to wash away a hill of dirt, many people assume the best way to achieve the goal is to increase the amount of water that can be channeled through it at once. They attempt to make the pipe larger. In other words, to increase their Will’s capacity. To be truly powerful, however, the pipeline of your Will must be not only wide, but robust and efficient. A smaller pipe may spew water more quickly than a larger one, if its walls are durable enough to withstand the pressure. At risk of abusing the metaphor, pouring water through the large pipe may result in a deluge that slowly erodes the hill, but the same amount of water forced at speed through a small pipe can create an impact forceful enough to scour the entire hill away, or simply pierce right through it.

“Efficiency will allow you to use minimal resources to achieve greater effects, and without wasted power spilling everywhere—everywhere except where you actually needed it to go, that is.” He examined their faces, his cynical expression stating quite clearly that he doubted they understood him.

Being close to the front, Sebastien heard him mutter, “Note: prepare visual aids next year,” to himself before continuing at full volume. “Most sorcerers waste much of the energy they attempt to channel. If you can be efficient, a mere three candles will be more than enough power for most spells you will be able to cast before earning your Apprenticeship.”

Some of the students looked skeptical.

The edges of his mouth drew down along with his eyebrows. “For those under one hundred thaums, one candle. Two candles under two hundred thaums. Everyone above that gets three candles. The restriction on power source should force you to focus on the quality of your Will, and not only the strength of it. Make it work. Two glyphs from now on, instead of three.”

He ignored the groans of the students. “The next few classes will provide time for you to practice against each other. This tournament is your mid-term examination. We’ll start a little early, since it will take more than a single class period, and winners will be decided on the day of this class’s mid-term. For your mid-term score, I will be grading you on all the facets of your Will, not just its capacity. The contribution points you earn can be redeemed immediately, or saved and added to your reserves. If you haven’t already, I suggest you take a stroll through the various rewards available in the Great Hall.”

That reminder of the prize boosted the students’ excitement, and with a slight loosening of his expression, Lacer waved them all down to his desk to retrieve their candles. “Partner up and start practicing.”

As soon as Sebastien made it back to her desk, a girl whose name she didn’t know pushed up beside her, holding a single tea candle in one hand and a chair in the other. “May I partner with you, Sebastien?”

Slightly taken aback by the informality, as well as the fact that she didn’t know the girl’s name, Sebastien nevertheless waved obligingly to her desk. The other girl only had one candle, so Sebastien set two of hers to the side to level the playing field. ‘How fortuitous. One standard-sized candle flame is only about eighty thaums. Hardly enough to strain me.’

With a wide grin, the pink-cheeked girl pushed the chair she had brought up to the other side of Siobhan’s desk and sat down.

“Seb—” Ana called, cutting off when she saw the other girl sitting across from Sebastien already.

“Sebastien is already partnered with me,” the unnamed girl said, her smile growing stiffer. She tossed a look over her shoulder to where a group of young women seemed to be paying a little too much attention to the three of them.

Ana frowned.

“I’ll be your partner, Anastasia,” a loud man said. Alec Gervin, with his lack of manners and self-important attitude, threw his arm around her shoulder.

Ana shook her head, “Oh, thank you, Alec, but I—”

“It’s no trouble at all, cousin. Besides, you need someone who can serve as an actual challenge to you,” he said loudly, throwing Sebastien a combative look that lacked any subtlety at all.

“I doubt that person is you,” Sebastien muttered, but she waved her hand uncaringly when both girls looked as if they were about to argue with Alec. “Go ahead.”

Once Alec had pulled Ana away, Sebastien muttered, “His ass must get jealous of all the shit that comes out of his mouth.”

The girl across from her almost choked on a surprised laugh, then clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. “Oh, you are so bad, Sebastien!”

Alec, not completely oblivious, shot them a suspicious look, but Sebastien was careful to keep her expression innocent.

‘At least the Westbay boy has some actual ability to back up his attitude. Gervin…well, I would be surprised if he got into the University without more than a little “help” from his Family.’

“Do you want to attempt movement, and I’ll attempt to stop you?” Sebastien asked. They would both be competing for control of the same main Circle carved into her desk.

The girl agreed and drew the glyph for “movement” inside the Circle on her side, then connected it to a smaller component Circle where she drew the glyph for “fire” and placed her candle. “Oh, I wish we could still use three glyphs. Only two is going to make this so much harder, don’t you think, Sebastien? My name is Cynthia, by the way. I don’t know if you…” Cynthia trailed off, flushing again.

“A pleasure to meet you, Cynthia,” Sebastien said distractedly. “And I don’t mind the restrictions. After all, the point of this class is to teach us to cast without any spell array at all.” After a few seconds to think, she drew a somewhat obscure glyph she had learned recently, “adversity.” She, too, used “fire” in her component Circle, before palming her Conduit, which she noted with a hint of jealousy was of much poorer quality than Cynthia’s.

She would need to be careful. Spells that directly opposed the Will of another thaumaturge put strain on the Conduit that was greater than the simple measure of how many thaums were being channeled. Meaning the Conduit was more likely to shatter unexpectedly, even at lower levels of energy. She understood the need for the efficiency Professor Lacer had lauded.

Reaching the danger level on her Conduit might come sooner rather than later, for her, especially if she was pitting her Will against a series of opponents that grew increasingly stronger. Her new main Conduit, the one she’d just bought at an exorbitant price to replace the one that shattered, was rated at only two hundred and twelve thaums. She had another one, her backup Conduit—little more than a cloudy pebble—tucked into her boot, but the capacity of the two Conduits couldn’t be added together. The backup was only meant to keep her alive long enough to redirect the magical energy and safely release a spell if her new Conduit shattered. It was a pity celerium couldn’t be melded together like any other sort of rock and still work as a Conduit. But there was a reason it was special—and so expensive.

Sure, she could just throw the match to avoid the risk, once things got more difficult, but she didn’t want to. Professor Lacer would be watching and judging them. ‘I have to prove to him that I’m worthy to stay at the University.’

So as she channeled Will and power into opposing Cynthia’s desire to make the ball move around the edge of the Circle, Sebastien kept an eye on her candle out of the corner of her eye. She had considered keeping a hand cupped around it so she could gauge its heat output, and thus, how strongly she was drawing on its power. This would require putting a piece of herself within the spell Circle, though, which was dangerous. Professor Lacer would surely throw her out of his class for displaying such stupidity in front of him twice. ‘I can learn from my mistakes. I can.’

So, she gauged the stability of her candle flame visually, putting mental pressure on her Will like a fist squeezing water out of a wet cloth. Tighter, more compact, more directed. Like a housewife squeezing bread dough, she forced her Will into a tighter and tighter mass, till she was gently massaging it, whispering to it and cajoling it to receive her thoughts and desires and needs.

When the spell array glowed with overspill, it wasn’t because of Sebastien. After Cynthia made a few dozen stymied attempts to get the ball to move, Sebastien suggested they switch. She would move the ball while Cynthia stilled it.

Again, Cynthia was no match for her.

Sebastien abruptly and rapidly varied both the amount of power she was putting into creating movement, as well as which direction she was attempting to move the ball, jerking it around despite the pressure of the Will trying to stop her.

This time, Cynthia had used the glyph for “stillness,” but didn’t seem to have a firm enough grasp on the mental aspect of opposing Sebastien, and was easily overcome whenever the force on the ball was anything other than steady pressure in one direction.

The spell array glowed brighter as the other girl grew tired and frustrated, and her candle flame began to flicker and flutter. “How are you so good at this?” Cynthia whined.

Sebastien drew back some of her attention from the spell, allowing the ball to stop jerking around spasmodically. “You’re pushing harder, but not exercising enough control. Look at your candle flickering. The spell array’s glow is from inefficiency, too. This is what Professor Lacer was talking about. Even if your Will had a greater maximum energy capacity than mine, I might still be able to beat you if my Will was more powerful than yours in other ways. You may conceptualize it however works best for you, but without a more compressed idea of what exactly you’re attempting to accomplish, you’re wasting too much effort on things that do not directly oppose my Will. Here, I’ll put less energy into it,” she offered, giving herself the chance to take a break. “Rather than continuing to blindly push as much power into the spell as you can manage, put more effort into a clear conceptualization of what you want.”

“What I…want?” The girl’s attention had completely fallen away from the spell, and she was biting her lower lip as if nervous, looking back at Sebastien with big, limpid eyes.

‘Has no one ever explained how spellcasting works to this girl, or is she simply stupid? Either way, I refuse to spend the rest of class explaining the basic concepts. She should not be in this class with such a marked inability to focus,’ Sebastien thought with some distaste. “Yes,” she said aloud. “You want to keep the ball from moving. But specifically, you must want to keep the ball from moving more than I want to move it. You must want it more clearly and purely than I want it. You want me to fail at moving it, because there is no space within the conceptualization of your Will for me to succeed. Smarter, not just harder, as they say.”

Cynthia was blushing brightly. “You’re so smart, Sebastien. Thank you for helping me.”

Sebastien noted the bright red of the other girl’s face. ‘I hope she doesn’t believe such an attitude is attractive. Perhaps she has enough sense to be embarrassed to be so openly incompetent that she is seen to need advice from a classmate, especially a no-name like me. But flattery from someone so mediocre is unlikely to gain my favor. If she was going to be so shy and embarrassed, why ask to partner with me? Well, perhaps she was pressured into it by some kind of dare or bullying from her friend group.’ She settled back with a nod, and instead of the scathing, impatient remarks she wanted to make, said, “I’m sure you can do it, Cynthia. Just focus.” Sebastien gave herself a mental pat on the back for her restraint and patience.

It took Cynthia a few more tries, but she did manage to improve. It still wasn’t enough to best Sebastien.

Halfway through the class, Professor Lacer called for them to switch partners.

Ana looked to Sebastien and began to rise, but another girl from Cynthia’s group of friends had lunged forward and slammed her palm on Sebastien’s desk as if it was a race. The loud cracking sound echoed through the classroom, drawing attention. “Are you free?” the new girl asked with a sweet, almost shy voice that belied her earlier zeal.

“Sure…” she said warily, nodding her head in greeting. “My name is Sebastien Siverling.”

“Helen Marvin,” the girl replied, flipping shoulder-length hair back with a practiced head toss as she sat down. “Call me Helen.”

Helen was better than Cynthia had been, and shot the other girl a smug look when Sebastien complimented her control.

‘Is there some sort of feud going on between them?’

However, she was still no match for Sebastien. “I think you might win the whole tournament. Professor Lacer is probably expecting it, and is only putting on this show so that no one can accuse him of favoritism for awarding you points directly,” Helen said.

Sebastien’s mind blanked out for a second as she tried to figure out which part of the girl’s statement was the most wrong and where to start with her rebuttal.

Helen didn’t seem to notice, and continued speaking. “What will you buy, if you win?”

Still trying to figure out how to respond to Helen’s previous statement, Sebastien answered this one. “Well, I haven’t perused what is on offer in the Great Hall, and I’m not sure what fifty points can buy.” Privately, she admitted that she would very much enjoy a more private room or some of the better meal options, which were only purchasable with contribution points.

“If you add Lacer’s points to whatever you earn at the end of term exhibitions, you’d be able to afford the hairpin carved from live star-maple wood. That hairpin would be the perfect gift for…a girl you wished would take notice of you.” Helen’s smile wasn’t over-wide, and she had looked away as she spoke, not with shyness, but as if to soften the impact of her words with nonchalance.

Still, Sebastien immediately understood her implication. She thought Sebastien was rich, and for some misguided reason also likely to gain the accolades that would get her contribution points before her fourth term. Helen wanted to attach herself to that success. Specifically, she wanted gifts like a magical hairpin from a wood known for its healing properties, likely meant to make her complexion dewy or her hair lush and shiny.

Sebastien shook her head decisively. “I’ll do my best in this tournament, but Professor Lacer will give the prize to whoever deserves it most. People seem to have wildly overestimated his regard for me. Also, I don’t plan to participate in the exhibitions.” She paused, debating whether to make a cutting statement about her lack of romantic interest to deter the girl more directly.

“What? Why would you not enter the exhibitions? Don’t you want future employers to notice you? What about the points? There are a ton of things here that you can’t buy with gold.” Helen’s voice was loud, turning heads around them.

Sebastien straightened, tamping down her irritation. Her desire to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to herself wasn’t something she could say aloud, or that the other girl would even understand, apparently.

Professor Lacer coughed pointedly, stopping beside their desk.

Sebastien jerked, straightening impossibly further. She hadn’t noticed his approach. “Professor,” she said, greeting him with a half-bow from her seat.

His glare seemed to cast a pall over their immediate surroundings. “Why have you stopped practicing in favor of inane chatter? Is it because you feel you have learned all my class has to offer, or have you simply admitted your own incompetence and decided to give up on self-improvement in favor of flirting?” His words were precise, clipped, and cutting.

“I apologize, Professor,” Sebastien said. “I was negligent. We will return to practice immediately.”

Helen nodded quickly, pale and seemingly unable to speak.

Lacer waited a few agonizing seconds before replying, “See that you do.” He turned and walked away, his trench coat spinning out and slapping the side of Sebastien’s chair as he passed.

Sebastien spent the remainder of the class in focused spellcasting. None of her fellow students even attempted to speak to her about topics other than the task at hand.

By the end of class, she felt the boost of artificial energy from the wakefulness brew and adrenaline wearing thin.

As the students filtered out, she thought she saw Professor Lacer throw her a dark look, but when she turned to meet his gaze head-on, he was facing away.

Damien Westbay swaggered up beside her as they walked down the hallway. He clicked his tongue like an old matron. “Tch, tch, Siverling. Flirting? I hope you bring more focus to the tournament, or I might end up crushing you without a fight, and that would be disappointing.”

Sebastien threw him a glare, her mouth already opening to let some of the frustration and anxiety within her spill out on an appropriate target. The sight of his smug grin, less malicious than she had expected, gave her pause. ‘Could he be…joking with me?’ She wasn’t sure of that, but the thought dispersed some of her ire. “I’m sure Professor Lacer will give you the prize you deserve. In your case, that would be…a participation trophy.” She gave him a smirk of her own and turned the corner into another hallway without giving him a chance to reply.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated! If you would like to support this story, consider sharing the story with anyone who you think might enjoy it. As an independent author, I need help getting the word out about my books.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-39-paper-spells/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 39 - Paper Spells

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 30, Monday 4:00 p.m.

Sebastien worried that the Morrows would rally after their failed attack and attempt to retaliate against the Verdant Stags with more violence. In fact, if the Morrows did not, it might be seen as a sign of weakness. Consequently, the Verdant Stag needed to recover and prepare faster than the Morrows could.

Even having acknowledged that, she didn’t have the mental energy to start brewing healing and battle potions for the Verdant Stag right away. Besides, Katerin could brew, and they had at least one other alchemist making concoctions for them. If they needed more, Oliver should have the funds to buy anything Sebastien could make from someone else. She was not the only supplier of the alchemical concoctions that the enforcer teams needed.

Trusting someone else to be competent enough to do what needed to be done was dangerous, but she believed Oliver would do his best to make preparations even if she wasn’t there. He had proven he was willing to take the weight of responsibility that many people shirked.

Gritting her teeth past the renewed headache from casting in Professor Lacer’s class, she went to the library. A private table hidden in a remote alcove sat thankfully empty. The natural light from the windows didn’t quite reach it, but her throbbing brain found that a boon rather than a detriment.

Sebastien pulled out some paper and her fountain pen, using cryptic notes—just in case someone were to somehow read them—to help organize her thoughts and rearrange her plans. Writing things down had often helped her settle her racing mind. ‘I need to study emergency procedure and triage—to make up for the knowledge I was clearly missing during the attack. Hopefully I’ll never need to use it, but…if I ever do, and I haven’t tried to correct the mistakes I made with Jameson, I couldn’t forgive myself.’

The University had healers’ courses, but only for those above Apprentice level. They started in the fourth term, once students had a stronger foundation. It was a complicated subject that required a lot of knowledge and power. She wouldn’t be able to learn everything on her own, but basics about how to triage and stabilize traumatic wounds should be accessible.

‘I need a variety of spells ready to go. Having a spell array memorized isn’t enough. It would be best if I had them primed to cast without the need to stop and draw the array before adding the components. Such a delay could be fatal in the wrong situation.’

With her lack of skill with artificery and her lack of funds to buy artifacts or potions, alchemy was the best way to accomplish her goal. As soon as she had the time and mental fortitude, she would go to Dryden Manor and brew a variety of the most useful potions she could think of. Starting with the blood clotter. ‘That’s good, but I should have other contingencies in place, too.’

The glass pane that had made her spell arrays portable was quite useful, if unwieldy and dangerous…and ultimately disastrous when she cut herself. She could see many scenarios where something like that could be invaluable. Actively cast spells weren’t quite as conveniently ready-to-use as alchemical concoctions, but alchemy didn’t have an equivalent recipe already developed for every spell. Pre-brewed items also couldn’t have their effects changed on the fly, and the cost of component ingredients was often higher.

The glass pane would have been even better if she weren’t forced to erase and redraw the Circle and Word every time she switched spells.

That’s what the giant tomes of magic that some sorcerers carried around were for. Some laypeople mistook them for grimoires, whose pages held instructions and notes on the spells. Magic tomes instead held useable spell arrays. The pages and arrays were made of special materials and cost more than a normal artifact to make, but provided access to more castable spells than would fit in most artifacts, up to two or three dozen.

The military offered its soldiers a few portable arrays made of precious metals wrought into the desired shapes, but those would be even less accessible to someone like her, and certainly were not something she could lug around in an emergency.

Sebastien paused her cryptic scribbles, staring down at the cheap paper as the ink from her pen tip began to feather out and form a blot.

Even if she couldn’t create a tome of magic from materials meant to handle spells, that didn’t mean she couldn’t set up the Circle and Word for a few useful spells ahead of time. Normal paper was a particularly poor surface for spell casting, but as long as it worked, some inefficiency could be excused. Even if the paper burnt up from the force of the magic flowing through it, it would just destroy the evidence. In fact, it would likely be a good idea to create a small spark-shooting spell array at the corner of each page, just in case she ever needed to quickly turn one or all of them to ash to keep them from being used against her.

The library, like the jail, had wards to notify them of sudden fluctuations of energy within a small area. Such fluctuations usually corresponded to magic being cast, which was prohibited due to possible damage to the books. Thus, she couldn’t immediately test her theory, but that didn’t stop her from bouncing up to feverishly grab research and reference texts.

She found a handful of low-powered but versatile spells that seemed like they would be useful to have on hand. Research on emergency healing measures was less successful.

Even with the help of the crystal ball search artifacts placed around the edge of the atrium, she found no information about blood transfusions except to mention that the Third Empire—also known as the Blood Empire—had performed them. Like all blood magic, they were illegal, and their use was considered high treason. Anything useful, like how to do them safely and properly, was restricted in one of the many underground archives.

Humphries’ adapting solution remained the only viable alternative. The solution could be spelled directly into the veins in a blood-loss emergency. Its original purpose had been to keep creatures from the Plane of Water alive on the mundane plane, but it could also act as a filler and keep blood oxygenated. It was expensive and difficult to make, and didn’t have a very long shelf-life, so it wasn’t feasible for most people except dedicated healers to stock. She had heard of it, but never brewed it herself.

And…the recipe was only available on the second floor of the library. Which she did not have access to. She almost kicked the base of her crystal ball’s marble stand in frustration. Despite this setback, she peered into the clear crystal and dutifully wrote down the locations of the books that contained a copy the recipe. ‘Just because I cannot go there myself doesn’t mean I cannot get information from the upper floors. This is innocuous enough, not like the restricted archives. I just need to get an upper-term student to check the book out for me.’

Her research continued through dinner, which she was much too focused to pause for, until ten, when the library closed and she was unceremoniously kicked out. Instead of going to the bed, she went to the dorm bathrooms. She would have preferred an empty classroom, but the Citadel closed at this hour, too. She checked to make sure all the stalls were empty, then sat down on the tile floor in one of the shower stalls and pulled out her notes and materials.

Using a piece of thread as a makeshift compass tool to ensure her Circle was as uniform as possible, and thus increase the spell’s efficiency, Sebastien carefully inscribed a rudimentary barrier array onto the paper with her fountain pen. Grubb’s barrier spell had been the weakest she found in the library, and at under two hundred thaums to manifest, the only one she could hope to cast, if feebly. It only protected against physical projectiles, but she had already proven that could be critical against a certain kind of opponent.

She took the components from her school satchel and placed them atop the correct spots on the paper, lit her tiny lantern for energy, and cast the spell.

The paper caught fire along the lines of ink she had drawn, and within a few seconds was nothing but ashes and wisps of smoke. The energy she had been channeling blew the white-blonde hair away from her face and scattered the ashes around the room, but thankfully didn’t manage to do any damage to her mind or her surroundings as it escaped.

She sat back, rubbing at her forehead and letting out a disappointed puff of air. Still not completely deterred, she took out another sheet and redrew the spell. This time, she focused on being as efficient as possible, casting more slowly and bearing down harder with her Will. The paper began to smolder and smoke along the ink lines, and though the entire sheet didn’t catch fire this time, the spell lashed against her Will, and she had to release it as pieces of the spell array disintegrated from the rest of the paper.

‘That could be quite dangerous. What if an inner Circle containing important glyphs were to burn separately from the rest of the paper and blow away in the wind, leaving me with only part of a spell? Or if the entire paper caught fire midcast, and I got Will-strain from the backlash?’

She tried using a wax crayon instead of ink, but quickly found that the wax melted into the paper and only added fuel for any opportunistic spark.

‘Behold. I have created a very tiny candle.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘No, ink is obviously better than wax. Perhaps the inked parts are burning because the channel through which all the energy travels is so thin? Too much heat in a small space can set almost anything alight.’

Tiptoeing into the dorms, she retrieved a small ink brush from her chest of belongings. Using that, the third attempt was a bit sloppier, but the lines were definitely wider. It helped, but again, not enough. Pieces of the spell array smoldered and burned away, even with her only holding the small shield spell active for a few seconds. That wasn’t completely useless, true, but it was close to useless.

She groaned and rubbed at her aching eyes. ‘Perhaps it would be best to set this idea aside until I have access to materials better suited to channeling magic. If they aren’t too expensive, that is…’ Her eyes opened, and she stared down at the small glass inkwell beside her. She already had a material better suited to channeling magic. Her blood.

She hesitated only briefly, considering the illegality of using blood, even one’s own, to channel magic, and then cast the hesitation aside. ‘No one will find out, especially if I simply mix blood in with the ink. The blood will be unrecognizable. And if I find there is somehow danger of discovery, I can simply activate the self-destruct spark spell and burn away the evidence of “blood magic.”’ Of course, this meant that the spell papers could never leave her person, but to fulfill their purpose of emergency preparedness, they shouldn’t be out of immediate access, anyway.

The brief mental nod to legality out of the way, Sebastien quickly made a small cut in her forearm with her athame, letting her blood fill the inkwell to the top. A dab of skin-knitting salve left only a faint scar to mark the spot, which would fade soon enough. She mixed the ink and the blood thoroughly, then painted the barrier spell on yet another piece of paper.

This time, the small barrier burst to life like a bubble, shimmering faintly, and the paper endured.

Sebastien let out a small “whoop!” of excitement, then let the spell go. Touching the paper revealed the ink lines were quite warm, perhaps almost to the point of catching fire, but casting was still feasible. ‘If I get my hands on some thicker paper, a little warmth won’t be disastrous. Maybe a double-ply bound together with paste. It should last at least a minute or two per sheet.’ Parchment, even the relatively cheaper parchment from a goat or a cow, would be extremely fire resistant, but then it wouldn’t be so simple for her to destroy any evidence that could lead to suspicion. Also, she still might not be able to afford it.

Having returned the spell components to her bag and carefully tucked away the paper and inkwell, she finally made her way to bed.

Only then did she remember the actual classwork that she needed to complete for Sympathetic Science the next morning. Normally, she would have completed it as early as possible, simply to get it out of the way, but now she was forced to resort to taking out her potion of moonlight sizzle and using its light to scribble her way through the assignment.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note:

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated! If you would like to support this story, consider sharing it with someone you think might enjoy it. I need help to get the word out!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-40-sleep-research/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 40 - Sleep Research

Sebastien

Month 11, Day 30, Monday 10:30 p.m.

Sebastien felt sick with fatigue by the time her head finally hit the pillow, and it wasn’t much better by morning. For once, not even the promise of learning magic was enticing enough to motivate her out of bed. Only the thought of her absence being noted managed to haul her to her feet. The coppers made another attempt to scry her before she got very far, and after it had failed and the adrenaline left her system, she felt even weaker.

She dragged through her classes, having to rush to the bathroom quite suddenly when the coppers once again scried for her. At the end of the day, she went to the market to purchase better paper, as well as supplies for the most critical potions.

The owner of the small stationery shop she visited was exceedingly solicitous, and at first she felt uncomfortable with him hovering near her and asking questions, but he turned out to be quite helpful.

“If you are looking for a fire-resistant writing surface that isn’t parchment, I recommend this one-quarter seaweed blend,” the man said, herding her around to the other side of the shop. “Darker, rougher, and thicker than fine vellum, but strong and long-lasting for any project you would like to withstand the rigors of time.”

“Is it totally flame resistant?”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately not, but it has good performance for the price. Don’t be dissuaded by the appearance. Of course, if you are insistent upon a brighter, smoother sheet, we do have more flame-resistant paper made of special magical materials—the details are a trade secret—but that option is significantly pricier.”

“No, no, this is fine.”

“Wonderful!” The man was so excited that she wondered if he’d been struggling to offload the seaweed paper. “What size would you like? We can cut it for you here, free of charge.”

Sebastien paused. The idea that she could get larger paper had never crossed her mind. She’d been stuck thinking that she would have something like a mini-tome of magic, filled with journal-sized spell arrays. But if that wasn’t the case, it gave her even more options. “No need. I need a variety of sizes, so I’ll be cutting it myself,” she said, grinning almost as wide as the shopkeeper.

A couple of gold lighter, she made her way to Dryden Manor. Oliver himself wasn’t there, but she set up the brewing station in his study anyway.

As she stirred the steaming cauldron over the small batch of grainy blood-clotting potion within, she had trouble focusing the full strength of her Will. Her eyelids would droop and her mind’s grip on the magic would loosen without her even realizing it, only for her to jerk back to alertness.

The third time this happened, the magic almost slipped from her grip entirely. It frightened her enough that she stepped away from the cauldron and took a few minutes to cast some wakefulness magic on coffee pilfered from Oliver’s kitchen. When she knocked back the mixture in a single swallow, coffee grounds and all, she got enough of a rush to make it through the remainder of the potion.

Oliver still hadn’t returned by the time she’d brewed a small batch of blood-clotting potions. She took one for herself and left the rest for him with a scribbled note.

The servants persuaded her to stay for dinner in the kitchen, more than happy to add her to their table. As Sebastien stuffed herself to make up for all the energy she’d expended channeling magic, Sharon fussed over the circles under Sebastien’s eyes and tutted about the University’s poor food quality.

When Sebastien returned to the dorms that evening, she thought, ‘I need to practice my new spells just like I practice the exercises for Professor Lacer’s class if I want to be able to use them in a practical setting.’ The acknowledgment gave her no extra energy, however, so she went to sleep instead.

The nightmares came particularly strong, seeming to defy her attempts to suppress them with magic. After she woke with a pounding heart and a scream choked off in her throat, she gave up on sleep and used the time to study the theory behind the new utility spells she would be putting on paper.

She felt no better than the day before, and after lunch her body decided it was a perfect time to catch up on all her deferred sleep, so she went back to the dorms for a short nap.

Newton noticed her struggling to get out of bed in order to make it to Defensive Magic, and stubbornly hauled her off to the infirmary. “I understand the desire to perform to the best of your abilities, but you have to recognize when you are in need of rest, Sebastien,” he said. “It won’t go away just because you keep pushing. The pressure only grows worse. Trust me, I know from experience.” He had shadows under his own eyes, and his clothes were a little more rumpled than usual.

“I’ve just been having trouble sleeping,” she said. “I’m fine, really.”

“You’ll get sick if you keep pushing beyond your limits. If you’re lucky, it’ll only be physical, and not cause any damage to your Will.”

“I’m missing class right now,” she protested. “And Fekten just gives the lectures, not any reading or homework. If I’m not there, I’ll miss the entire topic for today, along with the participation points toward my grade.”

“The infirmary will give you a pass,” Newton replied, undeterred. He waved, ushering her in ahead of him, as if to make sure she couldn’t escape behind his back.

‘They cannot know I had Will-strain. They might ask questions.’ But she couldn’t say that aloud, couldn’t explain that she didn’t want to seem any different than the other students to avoid drawing suspicion to herself.

To her surprise and relief, the woman who came over to deal with them seemed completely unsurprised when Newton volunteered the symptoms he’d noticed. “You’re the third one today, and that’s only of the students I’ve dealt with personally. Sometimes I think they push you all too hard. Are you experiencing any signs of Will-strain?”

Sebastien started to shake her head, but stopped when Newton raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Well, I have had some headaches,” she admitted. “But I think it’s just from the lack of sleep. The dorms, you know… I’m not used to sleeping with so many people all around me.”

“He wakes up and practices casting in the middle of the night,” Newton corrected.

The healer and student liaison shared a knowing look. “Well, I’m going to prescribe two days of rest from any practical exercises, as well as a mild anti-anxiety potion. The potion should last you for a couple of weeks, at single-sip doses. You can take it twice a day: once in the morning before breakfast, and once before bed. Please come back for more at the end of that period, if you feel you need it.”

Newton gave her a thumbs-up. “I’ll make sure he does.”

Sebastien rolled her eyes, but neither of the other two seemed to find her exasperation worth noting.

They made her take the first anti-anxiety potion before leaving. While Sebastien disliked the artificial sense of serenity, she had to admit that she had also lost any desire to attend Fekten’s Defensive Magic class, as the idea of physical exercise sounded torturous when she could be resting in her little cubicle instead.

“I’ll have one of your friends write down notes from Fekten’s lecture,” Newton said once he’d returned her to the dorms. “Rest easy, you won���t miss anything important.”

She hummed gratefully and found herself casting her dreamless sleep spell without even worrying that Newton was watching.

He drew the curtains around her bed, and she slipped into sleep while the sound of his footsteps was still fading into the distance.

She was still tired when she woke, but the nightmares wouldn’t let her rest any longer. She briefly considered going back to the infirmary to see if they could do anything to make her sleep more restful, but discarded the idea. When she was a child and the dreams started, her father had taken her to more than a few healers out of desperation, but there had been nothing they could do. “Dreaming is natural,” one had said, “and if the girl is having nightmares, perhaps you shouldn’t tell her any scary stories before bed.” Even when Ennis hinted at what she’d gone through before he came back for her, they had never been able to provide a solution. The dreamless sleep spell she had modified over the years was the only thing that seemed to actually help.

Besides, she didn’t feel comfortable revealing such a weakness when she was surrounded by potential enemies. She would handle her problems herself, as she always had.

So she returned her attention to her research on sleep, going through the texts on the subject that she had borrowed from the library. ‘If I’m never able to properly recover, any efforts to learn or practice other topics are useless. My Will is bound to grow brittle and snap even more quickly from desperate training without balance.’ Most of the texts were useless to her, and were set aside after she skimmed through them thoroughly, but just as she was beginning to despair, she came upon a research journal written by Keeswood, a thaumaturge who had been attempting to learn what sleep actually did for the body.

Keeswood cautioned against attempts to avoid sleep altogether, citing an increased likelihood of becoming sick, decreased mental and magical functions, and, in extreme cases, hallucinations, paranoia, and even madness. Nothing she didn’t already know. She was about to toss the book aside in frustration when Keeswood mentioned one particular experiment he had done on a pair of twins.

Using a spell that he explained only in the vaguest of terms, he had caused one twin to sleep in place of the other, allowing the wakeful twin to go for over ten days without sleep. Even this was not sustainable long term, because signs of fatigue still built up in the wakeful twin, while the twin who had been sleeping for the both of them fell into perpetual unconsciousness, not even waking for the eight hours per day that should have been possible.

In fear of damaging either of them, Keeswood had stopped the experiment. The wakeful twin had slept for a slightly extended period after the spell was released, but both recovered fully and returned to functioning normally after only a day.

Sebastien was captivated by the idea that someone or something else could do her sleeping for her. She quickly flipped through the rest of the research journal, but could find no more detail about the spell used to allow this. Standing, she pulled on her boots, preparing to go to the library and search for any other writings by the man, but realized with a bleary examination of her pocket watch that the library had already closed. She only then looked around and realized that most of the other students had returned to the dorms and settled down for sleep already.

With a deep sigh, she knelt over her pillow and cast the dreamless sleep spell as strongly as she could, setting her alarm for only a few hours later. ‘Perhaps if I wake on my own, I can recast the spell before the nightmares have time to slip in. It might allow for more overall sleep, since I won’t have to recover from them before being able to relax again.’ She took another dose of the anti-anxiety potion, and was able to get almost a full night’s rest by the morning.

She felt almost normal, but she didn’t forget the research journal or the ideas it had sparked.

Despite Newton’s good intentions, she did not give the casting pass from the infirmary to any of her teachers that day, feeling awake enough to at least complete the in-class exercises.

Professor Lacer seemed to be keeping a closer eye on her than normal, and that, too, kept her from being complacent enough to droop off. If she did, it would be the end of her, just like that boy who had supposedly been turned into a sheep and then expelled.

She stopped by the library once again after class and looked up every other text the author of the sleep-surrogate experiment had contributed to. Most of them were held in one of the restricted sections in the underground archives. She sought out one of the library student aides and enquired about accessing it. Without the contribution points to afford a pass to that section, and lacking the rapport with any of the professors that might get them to sign a special exception slip for her, in the end, Sebastien had been forced to flirt brazenly with the student aide to get a pass. She was desperate.

The young woman, who sported a tail marking her as one of the non-human students, could barely look Sebastien in the eye past her blush. She stammered that it would take at least a day to get a new pass created, and Sebastien promised to return when it was ready.

When Sebastien found her legs bouncing irritably as she tried to write a homework essay, she went to the simulation room in the big building out on the Flats, where students were permitted to practice spells and dueling for Defense class.

One of the utility spells she had researched for casting through paper was a fabric cutting spell that sent a single slicing line outward in an arc, the shape of which could be controlled to some degree by the caster’s Will. Unlike many similar spells, it didn’t require the target to be within the Circle, as it used compressed air as the cutting edge.

And of course, she could use it to do more than cut fabric.

It wasn’t meant to work against humans, or any living thing. However, with extensive practice, and if she could channel enough power into it, it could still overcome the inherent barrier against invasive magics that most creatures maintained unconsciously, through molding the air rather than trying to attack directly with magical energy. It was meant as a close-range spell, and at longer distances the cutting edge would degrade severely, but it was one of the few potentially useful battle spells that someone of her level could cast.

She set to practicing it using one of the waist-high, slate-topped columns the simulation room had helpfully raised from the floor to use as a drawing surface, aiming at a dummy only a few feet away. Keeping the air compressed for long enough that the slicing edge could travel farther was still well beyond her. She experimented with varying the size of the slice, as well as how quickly she cast.

While she was practicing, she noticed Westbay enter the room and move past her to one of the more advanced stations. He proceeded to use a battle wand in a mock duel with a dummy, which moved back and forth and sent harmless bolts of light shooting at him. He was actually quite skilled, both in his footwork and ability to dodge, and his aim. If he had been one of the coppers chasing after her, she likely would have been hit with a stunning spell and captured.

She was still methodically sending arcs of slicing air toward her stationary dummy when he finished and walked her way again.

Westbay stopped beside her, mopping at sweaty hair with a fluffy towel while he watched her cast.

She did her best to ignore him, powering up another slice, this one with a wider arc.

“A slicing spell? Are you planning to murder someone? My Family’s coppers will catch you, you know,” he muttered.

Sebastien spun on him before even fully registering what he said, a hot rush of fear and anger rising up from her belly as if it had been waiting there to be triggered. She opened her mouth to let it out in the form of words, and only when the spell had already been released—the edge of the slicing arc heading directly for the left side of Westbay’s chest—did she realize her mistake.

She tried to call it back, to direct the spell away, but it was too late. The edge, visible as a faintly glowing shimmer in the air, cut into him, slicing through his shirt and the skin below even as his eyes widened in belated surprise.

A red line of blood welled up, a crimson stain blooming on the crisp white fabric of Westbay’s shirt.

Sebastien’s face paled. ‘What have I done? I’ll be expelled.’

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Chapter 41 - Friendships Forged by Accident

Damien

Month 12, Day 2, Wednesday 5:30 p.m.

Damien looked down to the quickly reddening slice in his shirt. Sebastien Siverling’s spell had cut across the left half of his chest and his arm. For a moment, he wondered if he was going to die, carved right through but taking a moment to notice he was mortally wounded, like he’d read in one particularly violent detective story.

But, no, he judged with relief. The blood wasn’t shooting out in huge arterial sprays. As the pain began to register, he felt his cheeks flush with shame. If Titus knew how careless he had been, needling a sorcerer while they practiced battle spells, Damien would be in for a tongue lashing at the very least. Even little children should know better. Honestly, he didn’t even know why he’d done it.

He might not enjoy admitting it, but there was a reason Professor Lacer had taken Siverling as his apprentice. Siverling was obviously talented with magic, but also had a tongue sharp enough to match the professor’s, and an air of sophistication that even Damien couldn’t match, no matter how carefully he starched his collar or styled his hair. Siverling seemed not to even notice the rest of them unless interrupted from his constant study, and then the air of superiority—only partially covered by a facade of courtesy—was obvious to Damien at least, if not to all of their other classmates.

It was only when provoked that Siverling’s true temperament slipped through, and Damien could admit that he found it somewhat enjoyable to bicker with the other young man. It had become a habit over the last few weeks, even as Damien began to understand Professor Lacer’s choice. And, reluctantly, to admit that it had not been in error.

Siverling’s face had gone pale enough to match his hair, those dark eyes standing out starkly against his skin. His angry expression slid away in favor of unadulterated horror.

Damien swallowed and raised his right arm, the uninjured one, to push his hair back from his face. Should he apologize? Probably, but it seemed strange to do so when he had been injured at Siverling’s hand.

The other young man’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding the words like a pepper mill as he said, “Lie down on the ground and take off your shirt.” Then Siverling was turning and running for the changing rooms.

Damien stared after his escaping form, blinking. “What?” Was Siverling seriously leaving him there to go get dressed? No, he’d already been wearing his normal clothes, so that couldn’t be it. Damien looked to the dirty floor, the white dust of the Flats and whatever other filth people had stepped in tracked everywhere. “Lie down on that?” He would have to change his clothes afterward. His eyes were drawn to the crimson soaking his shirt, all the way down to the waist now. “I suppose it is already quite ruined,” he muttered. Along with his sweat and the blood, a little dirt wouldn’t make much difference.

He swayed on his feet.

Siverling, returned already without Damien noticing, grabbed him by the shoulders with a grim expression and pushed him down to the floor.

Damien realized Siverling’s instruction had been meant to keep him from fainting due to shock or blood loss. “I should be fine if I get to the healers soon enough,” he said. “There’s an alarm ward trigger on the on the back wall, remember?” It would alert them to an emergency and summon someone skilled enough to keep students alive in even the most grievous states. Except, if the healers were called, they would notify his family.

“If my father finds out…” he muttered quietly. Realizing he had spoken aloud, he let the statement trail off. Even the thought was frightening.

Siverling must have caught the fear on Damien’s face, because after a short hesitation, he said, “There’s no need for a healer.” He dug into the satchel he had grabbed from the changing rooms with practiced hands. “It’s just a scratch, and we will have it healed in no time.”

Damien stared incredulously at the other young man. “Just a scratch?” The pain was making itself known now, and the blood had finished with his shirt and was beginning to soak his trousers. He kept his eyes on Siverling’s face so that he wouldn’t focus on the blood. He had been injured a few times sparring with his brother or his dueling tutor, but the sight of blood still made him lightheaded. “Do you have a healing artifact in there?” he questioned. In a low murmur, more to reassure himself than anything, he added, “If there are no healers involved, my father need not know…”

The young man nodded tightly as he pulled out a couple of potion vials and the supplies to draw a spell array.

Damien frowned, shaking his head woozily. “That’s not a healing artifact.”

Siverling reached forward and tore Damien’s shirt, widening the slices the spell had made to better expose the wounds.

“You are so forward.” The words had slipped out before Damien realized what his stupid brain was thinking, and he would have been embarrassed, but he imagined almost anything he said could be excused by the circumstances.

“Lie back,” the other boy ordered, accompanying the words with a firm push on Damien’s good shoulder.

Damien complied.

“The wound isn’t that deep. I’m not sure we need a blood clotter, but it’s better to be safe. I don’t want you bleeding out before I can handle this,” Siverling muttered. He uncorked the potions, dribbling the first, and then the second across the cut from right to left.

The first was a wound cleanser, Damien thought. There was just enough in the bottles to generously cover the entire wound, and Damien winced at the burning as the wound cleanser killed any infectious agents. The blood clotter did its job immediately after. The bleeding stopped, but the slice was far from healed.

Siverling eyed it critically. “I don’t think my skin-knitting salve is going to be able to deal with that.”

Damien groaned, reaching up to touch it, but his hand was rudely slapped away by Siverling.

“Keep your filthy fingers at your sides,” the young man snapped, picking up the spell supplies. “And stay still while I work.” He leaned over Damien, drawing a large Circle on the ground around his entire torso, and then a mirrored pair over Damien’s chest and arms. Siverling hesitated for a few moments when drawing the glyphs, glancing at the blood now forming a puddle on the floor.

Finally, he drew back and reached in one of his vest pockets for something he didn’t find. He looked around and snatched up a small, contaminated Conduit that he had apparently dropped when he hit Damien with the cutting spell. He clenched it in his fists, glared down at Damien’s wound, and took a deep breath.

Damien felt the weight in the air as Siverling gathered his Will. “Wait, wait!” he said.

Siverling met his wide-eyed gaze, raising his eyebrows impatiently. “What?”

Was he seriously about to attempt a healing spell? “You didn’t even place any components in the Circle, and that Conduit wouldn’t be fit for a goblin. It’s going to backfire and injure both of us.”

Siverling’s scowl returned full force. “Shut up and stay still.”

“If you could heal something like this with nothing from the Plane of Radiance and with that Conduit, I would acknowledge you as the second incarnation of Myrddin—”

Before Damien could protest any more, the other boy began to cast.

Damien didn’t move, though he wasn’t sure if it was for fear of distracting Siverling and causing the disaster he feared, or if it was because some small part of him was watching with anticipation and a growing sense of awe.

That second, smaller part of him was fully rewarded as the cut across his chest began to tighten and heal, as if time was being wound back, so slowly it was almost possible to miss it.

Siverling’s brow beaded with sweat and his fist clenched so hard around the Conduit that his knuckles turned white. It took a lot longer than a certified healer would have managed, and there was a certain hair-raising discomfort that Damien had to steel himself against as his flesh moved. When Siverling finally finished, he released the spell with an almost tangible burst of freed power and sagged forward, breathing raggedly. He used some skin-knitter to seal the patch job.

Gingerly, Damien sat up and touched his chest. The slice was more than half-healed, red and aching, but not bleeding any more. After the skin-knitter finished, there would be a scar, so the spell hadn’t been perfect, but it was still astounding. He turned to look at the spell array on the ground, his eyes marveling at the minimalist construction. There were no components except a little oil lamp to provide energy, and no instructions besides glyphs for mirroring, flesh, and healing. His heart was pounding when he turned back to Siverling.

He watched as the young man recovered from the overexertion. It had been snark when he said he would acknowledge Siverling as the second incarnation of Myrddin. But this…

Sebastien Siverling could end up the most powerful sorcerer of their generation.

At the realization, Damien let out a slow breath. How had he not heard of the Siverling family before? Were they simply that far from Lenore? Or perhaps fallen into such ruin that their name was no longer mentioned among the influential. It might explain why, despite Siverling’s mannerisms and attire, he used such a cheap Conduit. Perhaps his family had spent all they could to ensure he would fit in amongst his peers at the University, and hoped that he could make it through the first few terms without bringing attention to the Conduit. Obviously, a better one would be needed soon if he didn’t want to risk it shattering.

Siverling raised himself back up, his spine straight and his chin raised. “It’s healed,” he said. “There’s no need to sound the alarm, or to contact your family. We may both continue on and forget this incident.” He stared into Damien’s face as if searching for something, then grimaced slightly. “Of course, I’m willing to provide a small favor as well, if you wish. I did ruin your clothing, after all.”

It was only then that Damien realized Siverling had thought Damien was threatening him when he mentioned his father’s wrath. He opened his mouth to explain and reassure the other boy, then closed it abruptly.

“A favor,” Damien agreed. “And a ceasefire between us. I apologize for my previous actions, and I hope that we can be civil toward each other going forward.” He hadn’t been raised a simpleton, and even if he was still feeling a little lightheaded, he wasn’t stupid. Alliances formed now would influence the future, as would enemies. Plus, he found himself undeniably curious about the other young man.

Siverling’s eyes widened at the offer of reconciliation, then narrowed, but eventually he nodded. “Agreed.”

“Lend me your jacket,” Damien said. “Unless,” he added, seeing Siverling’s raised eyebrow, “you wish everyone to see the state of my attire and ask questions.”

With a huff, Siverling gave him the jacket. After clearing the spell array and remains of blood from the ground, they left the simulation room together, heading back toward the dorms.

“Why aren’t you participating in the exhibitions?” Damien asked.

Siverling shot him another inscrutable look before replying. “I have no need for points, and would rather spend my time learning something useful than preparing some spectacle purely to impress the judges and audience.”

“You wouldn’t need to do much extra preparation, I think. You could simply show them your skill at purely Will-based healing spells and gain full points. Healers command a sizable income, you know. Especially ones as talented as yourself. You might even be able to earn a little money while continuing on past the third term.”

Siverling’s face grew stony, and he stared straight ahead for long enough that Damien wondered if he had said something wrong. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned the bit about earning money. If Siverling’s family wasn’t impoverished, it would be gauche. If they were, maybe he was sensitive about it.

“I have no desire to ingratiate myself to those who would hold themselves above me while weighing my worth—as if I were a fat hog—nor do I feel the desire to peacock around for insignificant points and empty praise. I will not participate,” Siverling said, his lip curled in a scornful sneer.

Yes, Damien had definitely offended him. “Well, to each their own. Personally, I would enjoy moving up from the dorms. Being stuffed in with the rabble makes it so difficult to properly relax, and I know someone stole my spare pair of boots.” He scowled for a moment, thinking of what he would do to that person should he ever find them. “But there are other ways to gain points, such as the tournament in Practical Casting. If you would like to gain extra practice with competent opponents before then, you might join our study group again.”

“Maybe.”

Well, at least it wasn’t outright refusal. With persistence and cunning, he could get Siverling’s amity. Damien could be likable when he wanted to be. Even to people as insufferably rude as Sebastien Siverling. Perhaps a more direct overture of friendship was required. “You were practicing a battle spell, though I’m not sure I’ve seen that particular one before. If you have interest in dueling, both Rhett and I have some skill. His interest leans more toward competition, but I’ve received some of the same training our coppers get. I could pass along some useful tips, or help you hone your aim and footwork.”

That seemed to catch Siverling’s interest. “Right, your family is in charge of the coppers. Have there been any updates on that case you were talking about before?”

Damien suppressed a small smile. Perhaps it wasn’t the dueling Siverling was interested in, but the detective work, like Damien. Well, that made sense, as the job was both worthwhile and fascinating.

“Yes, in fact. She made an appearance in a fight between two local gangs, though the circumstances behind the whole altercation are somewhat muddy. She injured several members of one group, but they were able to retreat when things became dire. Now, one would assume this meant she was allied with the second group in some way, but when the coppers arrived, they found her performing some sort of sacrificial blood ritual on one of them.”

He grinned as Siverling’s eyes widened, satisfied with the other young man’s rapt attention. Perhaps he could share some of his old detective periodicals with Siverling. He would be bound to enjoy them. Then, at least, Damien would have one friend with whom he could talk about the latest fictional exploits of Aberford Thorndyke, consulting detective.

“Do they have any leads on her?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. Well, she fought back against the coppers when they arrived, leaving her victim to his fate, but though we almost caught her, she managed to escape. However, one of the coppers managed to injure her, and she left a little of her own blood behind on the scenes. They have it and are scrying for her now. Of course, she’s quite a powerful sorcerer, so she’s managed to hold off the attempts so far. A couple of witnesses even say she was managing to cast spells using the air as the surface for her spell array, though I’m a bit skeptical about the veracity of those claims. We are quite confident she’s still within the city, and they’ll be bringing in some stronger scryers soon, I’m sure. I know my brother has access to a prognos or two, so I imagine it is only a matter of time before she’s caught.”

Siverling was still enraptured, so Damien went into detail, relating what he knew from the reports he’d managed to wheedle out of his brother, along with his own speculation. He continued until Siverling rubbed his forehead, wincing as if he had a headache.

Damien’s eyes narrowed, and, as he paid closer attention, he noticed the trembling in Siverling’s fingers. “You didn’t strain your Will healing me, did you?”

“No,” Siverling replied in a clipped tone.

Damien eyed him dubiously. He didn’t need to be Aberford Thorndyke to make such an obvious deduction. “It’s no use pretending you didn’t, if you did. My brother always says, ‘If you’ve strained your Will, it’s a sign you chose the wrong strategy at least two moves ago. Do not just continue on bullheadedly, as that will lead to even more catastrophic failure.’” Damien felt even worse about the whole thing now.

“First, there was nothing to heal, because nothing happened, remember?” Siverling said pointedly.

Damien nodded slowly, pursing his lips.

“So there’s no reason to go to the infirmary just for them to ask a lot of questions and prescribe a couple days of rest. Secondly, even if I had healed you, I wouldn’t have hit Will-strain just from that.”

Siverling glared at Damien until he nodded again, though he didn’t believe Siverling’s assurances at all. Obviously, he’d strained his Will from that ridiculous display of skill, but he didn’t want anyone to know. “Well…you should take a break from casting spells for a completely unrelated reason, then.” He gave Siverling a pointed look of his own.

When they got back to the dorms, Damien changed into a fresh outfit—one not covered in blood—but found Siverling gone when he emerged from the bathrooms. “Oh, well,” he said, tossing his clothes into the fireplace, both to destroy the blood and to keep the events of that afternoon secret. All in all, it had been an exciting and fruitful day.

Almost an adventure, really.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated! I had a lot of fun with that chapter. Did that go like you thought it would?

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-42-the-mysteries-of-sleep/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 42 - The Mysteries of Sleep

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 2, Wednesday 6:00 p.m.

Sebastien had, in fact, strained her Will again healing that idiotic boy. It wasn’t so much the spell itself as it was trying to keep the Word almost entirely in her head while casting it. She wanted to leave no evidence of the Sacrifice for that particular spell. This way, even Westbay couldn’t truthfully say that he’d seen her use blood magic.

She had panicked when she realized what she’d done. Harming another student with careless magic use was a big deal. ‘Harming one of the Thirteen Crown Families, and a high-ranking member at that? One I’m known to dislike? Even if the University believed it was an accident, the slightest push from one of the Westbays would have a commoner like Sebastien Siverling expelled.’ It wouldn’t even have to be Damien Westbay himself who complained. If any member of his Family wanted the University to take greater responsibility for his safety, she would be the perfect scapegoat. Even Professor Lacer might not be on her side.

So she’d acted as quickly as possible to cover up the evidence, removing any need for him to report the incident. She owed him a favor now, but that was a trifle. After all, she’d been willing to owe far worse favors to borrow tuition money.

Sebastien begged some headache salve from Ana, since she’d used all of hers as fuel for the fire a few nights before, when her warding medallion had been the only thing that kept the coppers from scrying her and Oliver.

With the throbbing in her brain partially suppressed, she escaped to a dark, secluded corner of the library to do her homework. Very inefficiently.

Professor Lacer’s exercises had fallen to the wayside for the last few days. ‘I’m in no shape to do them now. I hope I don’t fall too far behind before I’m recovered again.’

That night, she took another dose of the anti-anxiety potion, but hesitated before trying to cast her dreamless sleep spell. She considered instead casting a very slow, careful, timed alarm spell on her pocket watch to wake her before she could slip too deeply into dreams, but reluctantly discarded the idea. Pushing too hard with Will-strain could make it worse, or even cause permanent damage. She had to rest as much as possible. ‘All the more reason I need access to the remainder of Keeswood’s research on the experiment that allowed one twin to bear the sleep of the other.’

Two more doses of anti-anxiety potion when she woke in the middle of the night got her through to the morning. As she dragged herself off to the bathrooms for her morning ablutions, she lamented the life choices that had led her to this moment.

Without the esoteric pain-muffling spell to get her through the workout, Defensive Magic was even more grueling. When she accidentally tripped another student and caused a near-pileup while they drilled evasive maneuvers, Fekten snapped at her. “Are you a new-born puppy dog!? Out there in the real world, carelessness like that will get people killed. Keep your head in the game and your limbs to yourself!”

After classes, she scrambled to the library, where the blushing, stammering student aide gave her a pass to the restricted section where the majority of the sleep researcher’s experiment journals were held.

‘Information should be available to everyone in the first place,’ Sebastien thought with irritation. Even once she had proven herself worthy of the University, she still had to fight for knowledge. They didn’t want people who would only be there to reach Apprentice certifications learning anything truly useful or dangerous. Those who stayed longer would have the chance to earn the contribution points needed to get into whatever sections of the library they desired.

The door to the restricted archives was thick metal, spelled with what she thought was the same ward on the gate to the Menagerie. The new wooden token that allowed her into a specific archive shivered as she passed through the doorway. A short staircase led down to hallways carved from the natural white stone of the white cliffs that the University had been built into and atop. The hallways were narrow, the ceilings low, and the air smelled of ancient dust with a faint hint of paper and glue. ‘The smell of undisturbed books.’

The student aide was needed elsewhere, so she gave Sebastien quick instructions to the single archive she could access, warning her not to get lost. “It’s said you can still hear the screams and shuffling footsteps of those who wandered until they starved to death, if you listen,” the girl murmured, her tail swishing with agitation. “It used to be a network of caves, and the only navigation aid is the archive code above each door. It’s easy to get turned around down here.”

“I’ll be careful,” Sebastien assured the student aide with a smile, repressing her impatience.

The girl blushed, said, “Good luck with your research project,” and hurried away, pausing only to remind Sebastien not to mention the pass to anyone who might get her in trouble.

Sebastien found her way easily enough, ignoring the other metal doors along the tunnel despite her curiosity. She didn’t want to set off any alarms by trying to get past a ward without the proper key. Finally, she pushed open the door to a dim room only a few meters on either side. It was quite different from the high ceilings and warm, bright light of the main library floors above. The air was still, the only movement in the room from her own entrance, but it smelled fresh, and there was no dust or spiderwebs on the rough ceiling or in the corners of the room.

She pulled every book with Keeswood’s name on it off the shelves. Her fingertips burned with excitement as she scanned the pages. It was hard to concentrate on the words, but she was determined.

Two hours later, after flipping through the whole stack, she tossed the last journal onto the table and sat back with a scowl.

The series of handwritten journals had whole volumes missing, and sections of pages had been cut away in those that remained. ‘Well, at least I know why they were restricted.’ It had never been explicitly stated in the pieces of his journals that remained, but Sebastien gathered he’d been involved in some blood magic. She hadn’t found a detailed explanation for the spell he’d used to join the sleep requirements of the two twins with no serious side-effects, but he’d recorded other spells of a similar nature, and she was able to piece together an idea of how it had worked. Perhaps the details had been in one of the missing sections.

‘If I want to use it, I will have to redevelop it myself.’

Leaving the library, she stopped by the infirmary again. She looked around cautiously to make sure the healer she’d talked with before wasn’t on duty, then inquired about some headache-relieving salve. She didn’t want to have to keep borrowing from Ana, and she wouldn’t have time to make her own until the weekend. Plus, she was paying for the infirmary as part of her tuition anyway, so she might as well try and recoup some of her gold’s worth.

When she finally got back to the dorms, she found a stack of book-bound periodicals on her desk. She eyed them suspiciously. ‘Are they trapped?’ They looked innocent, and nothing happened when she nudged the pile. They were fiction, touting the latest adventures of someone called “Aberford Thorndyke, consulting detective.” ‘Or did someone put them there so they can pretend I stole them and get me into trouble? But why would they put them in plain sight? At the very least, you’d think they’d slip them under the bed…’

She looked up and saw Westbay looking at her from over his dividing wall. He sent her a wink and a thumbs-up.

Bemusedly, she realized he’d left them for her. ‘Could it be, because of my questions about the case, he thinks I have an interest in detective stories?’ The friendly gesture was still surprising, and left her a little off-kilter, unsure if she should be suspicious of some deeper layer of motivation or simply amused at his obliviousness. Perhaps a little blood, a secret, and a favor owed him was all it took to befriend Westbay. ‘Without a blood print vow to guarantee that favor I promised, I barely feel any pressure. Once enough time passes, even if he wants to get me in trouble for hurting him, the scar will have faded, and anyone he tries to tell will be suspicious about why he didn’t report it when it happened. He’s a little too naive.’

After riffling through the pages of the detective stories to make sure nothing was hidden between them, she decided to humor Westbay by reading one, as each was short enough to be finished rather quickly. Her concentration was still a little too shot for schoolwork or further research, anyway.

To her surprise, she found she enjoyed the story. The plot was a little unbelievable, but it was fun to follow along as the fictional Thorndyke used his superior intelligence and observational skills to assist the coppers in solving baffling crimes, and she enjoyed the dynamic between him and his Everyman assistant, Milton.

Her pass to the restricted archive didn’t allow her to check books out or even remove them from that room, so she had to return to the archive to continue her research. Over the next couple of days, she pieced together a better understanding of the author’s work, taking pages of notes and checking out a few dense reference texts referred to in passing within the journals. The ones she had access to, anyway.

She wanted to pull her pale blonde hair out by the roots.

Apparently, she needed a deeper understanding of the workings of the brain and the immune system. Looking at the references meant for upper-term healing students, with tight-packed text and illustrations she barely understood, she drooped. ‘No truly valuable accomplishment is easy, I know. But still…this had better turn out extremely useful,’ she grumbled mentally. Truthfully, though, she would be happy with almost any small measure of improvement.

In Practical Casting, Sebastien took the initiative to approach a young woman who she vaguely remembered was a commoner without much prior experience with magic, one term above her. “Would you like to partner with me today?” she asked.

The woman’s eyes went wide, then darted around quickly, as if to make sure Sebastien was really talking to her. “Umm, I won’t be very good practice for you. My Will’s maximum capacity is only at a hundred thaums on the Henrik-Thompson scale?” she said, biting her lip.

“I don’t mind,” Sebastien assured her, sitting down on the other side of her desk without further preamble. “I’ll work on improving my efficiency, and you can work on improving your capacity. Using just a single flame will be a good challenge for me.” She placed a single tea candle in her Sacrifice Circle.

The woman looked around again, uncomfortably meeting the curious gaze of some of the other students, but silently nodded.

Sebastien’s little plan worked well, as her opponent’s enduring capacity was a respectable two-thirds of her maximum, meaning Sebastien only needed to channel about seventy thaums to keep up. Even this was enough to give her a migraine, though, and she slipped away to the bathroom to reapply headache salve. “I’m getting very tired of this,” she muttered, staring at her bloodshot eyes in the mirror above the sink.

When she returned to the class, the students were rearranging themselves, and she realized with dismay that Lacer had instructed them to switch partners.

As she was looking around for a suitable partner, Anastasia Gervin caught sight of her and began to maneuver her way.

Sebastien pretended not to see her. She liked the other girl well enough, but Ana wasn’t a suitable partner to slack off against.

Just as Ana was about to reach her side, and Sebastien had almost resolved to just grab the closest random student, Westbay hurried up from behind Ana, clapping Sebastien on the shoulder.

“Partners, Siverling?” he asked.

Ana stopped abruptly, looking at Westbay with wide eyes that narrowed suspiciously. “Really, Damien? Can’t this rivalry wait until the actual tournament?”

Sebastien almost rolled her eyes, turning to Ana. “Westbay has convinced his friends of his illusion that the two of us are rivals, too?” she asked.

Westbay shooed away her words, smiling a little too casually to seem normal. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ana. I lent Siverling some Aberford Thorndyke stories. He likes detectives, too, did you know? He always runs off to the library right after class, so this is our best chance to discuss them.” He didn’t allow Ana to respond, his grip on Sebastien’s arm steering them back to Westbay’s desk. “So what did you think of the twist at the end, with the serial disappearances?” he asked loudly.

“It was a tad obvious,” Sebastien said truthfully, wondering what Westbay was doing but deciding to play along.

“Obvious?” Westbay’s head snapped around to Sebastien, and he scowled. “How could you possibly have seen—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together with a sharp shake of his head. “Never mind. That’s not relevant right now.” He lowered his voice, leaning closer over the table. “Do you have a headache?”

Sebastien shrugged, drawing the numerological symbols into the carved Circle between them. A triangle, for the simple transmutation of heat to movement, and then a pentagram within that, because she thought it might help with actualizing the idea of opposition.

“I know you do. I noticed you go to the bathroom, and I can smell the mint of a headache salve.”

Sebastien set the chalk down, staring expressionlessly at Westbay.

The young man continued, undeterred. “You chose to partner with Jones because she doesn’t pose a challenge, and you still had to use headache salve. You shouldn’t be here. You definitely shouldn’t be here and casting magic. Did you think everything would be better after just a day? I know you’re some prodigy who might not ever have experienced Will-strain before, but it takes two to three days of complete rest to safely recover. We covered this on the first day of classes. I know you were there.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, lighting their candles and putting the iron ball on the edge of the Circle. “Hurry up and pay attention. Casting against each other using the same array is dangerous, and I would prefer not to be subjected to the effects of your inability to focus.”

“Professor Lacer may be strict, but he isn’t unreasonable. He’s a bit snappish toward the students to keep us from messing around, but I know him outside the University a little, and I can assure you that he’d never force you to keep casting with Will-strain.”

She pushed energy into the spell and sent the ball rolling uncontested. “You want to renege on our deal?”

“What? No.” He lowered his voice further. “Is this about…my father?” He continued quickly, “I’m not suggesting we tell everyone what really happened. We can make something up.”

“Professor Lacer will want to know what happened. You want to try and lie to him about it?” Thaddeus Lacer was one of the more common topics of student gossip. She’d overheard someone say that he had a powerful divination for untruths running all the time, and could know as soon as you said it whether you really did the homework. She didn’t know if it was true, but if anyone had both the ability and the inclination to do such a thing, it was Thaddeus Lacer. He had little patience for fools and those who stood in his way. “I have absolutely no intention of taking such a risk.”

“Well, okay, that’s probably not a good idea. You could…tell the truth?” Westbay seemed to know it was a bad idea even as he said it, judging by the cringe on his face, but he bulled on regardless. “He might be angry, but—”

Sebastien cut him off. “Of course he would be angry. What I did—” She clenched her jaw. “If you heard the same story from someone else, what would your reaction be?” In the very best case scenario, Professor Lacer would simply be disappointed in her, and maybe he wouldn’t let her stay for the next term. In the worst case scenario, he would be enraged by her second overt display of stupidity, injuring someone Lacer was presumably closer to than he was to her—she had heard him call Westbay by his first name, after all—and he would throw her out immediately. The University took it seriously when their students were endangered. Surely even more so, for the nobles.

She’d be that student people gossiped about with some ridiculous story, in which Professor Lacer turned her into a fish and hurled her over the east edge of the white cliffs—right into the Charybdis Gulf. She couldn’t tell the truth, and she couldn’t risk lying to him, either. Just the thought of approaching the topic with Professor Lacer had her heart pounding faster in her chest. She was afraid. Her headache grew worse at the increase in her blood pressure.

Westbay smoothed his hair back, making sure every strand of its waxed-perfect sloping style was in place. “Well. I know what my father would say. To be honest, I don’t want him to hear about this any more than you want Professor Lacer to know. He’d be…disappointed.”

“Yes, well, if Professor Lacer gets ‘disappointed’ in me, that’s the end of my stay here at the University,” she said, grinding her teeth.

“Right, because you’re his app—”

She kept talking, uncaring of whatever weak argument he was trying to make. “So I will say nothing. You will pay attention and play along. Stop blabbering and start casting, Westbay.”

Westbay glared, but, after a few tense seconds, he picked up his Conduit and turned his attention to the ball, opposing its slow rolling. He didn’t put much effort into it, though from the disgruntled look on his face it seemed like he was struggling and failing. “At least you remember my name now,��� he muttered.

They kept the ball rolling slowly for a while, neither pushing very hard but outwardly keeping their focus for the benefit of anyone watching. Sebastien felt a tug of gratitude toward Westbay, and suppressed a grimace. ‘If not for him, I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. Don’t go soft just because he’s being friendly now,’ she told herself. ‘He is still an unbearable ass deep down. People don’t actually change.’

They continued on like that until Professor Lacer, who had been strolling along the rows of desks, occasionally stopping to give praise or a sharp rebuke, stopped beside their desk.

She couldn’t help but tense up as he loomed over them, his presence bigger than his body could ever be. She kept her eye on the rolling ball.

Westbay seemed to feel the same, but he flicked a quick glance between the professor and Sebastien, and his candle flames flickered as his concentration wavered.

Sebastien tried to stay in sync with him, to keep the ball moving steadily, but she didn’t quite manage it, and it sped up sharply for a moment.

She felt her back tensing straighter, and slowly pushed a little more power into the spell.

Westbay frowned slightly, as if he was struggling to keep the ball from moving.

“Stop,” Lacer said, his voice cutting through the class despite its low volume.

Sebastien’s heart clenched sickeningly. She released the magic, and the ball rolled to a stop, the sound of it louder than it should have been against the backdrop of the rest of the classroom. People were abandoning their own practice to look at the three of them.

Lacer waited, allowing the silence to become unbearable.

Westbay started to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

She stared at him, urging him mentally not to do anything stupid.

Finally, Professor Lacer spoke, his words carefully enunciated, precise, and somehow all the more menacing for it. “Were either of you, perhaps, under the impression that I am a blind half-wit?”

Westbay paled.

Sebastien swallowed. “No, Professor.”

Westbay echoed her.

“In that case, do you think this kind of effort,” he nodded his head to the table in between them, “is acceptable?”

Westbay looked at Professor Lacer, then back to Sebastien, wide-eyed. He tilted his head to the side, just slightly, a query.

Sebastien glared back at the boy, stony-faced. Poor performance on a single exercise in class was nothing compared to carelessly injuring a fellow student and then causing herself Will-strain while using blood magic to heal him.

That thought sent a cold centipede of horror crawling down her spine. If she hadn’t healed Westbay, there might have been some chance to come clean. But if there was any chance at all that she would be accused of blood magic, it would be better for her to cut out her own tongue. Literally. Blood magic was high treason. She would be killed. “No, professor.” Her throat was dry, and she swallowed convulsively.

“Try again,” he ordered, his voice hard despite its low volume. He held his hand out to stop them when they turned their attention back to the spell. “This time, Westbay will attempt to move the ball clockwise and Siverling counterclockwise. Perhaps a more direct competition will stir your spirits.”

Westbay quickly rubbed out and replaced his two glyphs, and they complied.

The ball moved counterclockwise in small starts as Sebastien poured on more and more power, her grip on the magic like a vise, and Westbay countered her.

They steadied out at a consistent rotation in her favor.

“Is that all you have? Push harder!” Lacer ordered.

Westbay looked at her uncertainly, but she was already complying, the ball spinning faster till it began to blur.

It slowed again as Westbay pushed against her Will. His candles flickered under the drain, and she realized suddenly how Professor Lacer had known they weren’t truly trying. Their candles weren’t showing any signs of true strain—no flickering, loss of heat, or dimming—when Westbay’s Will was likely approaching two hundred thaums and she had already exceeded that amount. If she pushed to the normal limits of her ability, she could likely suck two candles completely cold.

She pushed harder, till her own two little flames looked like washed-out ghosts of themselves. The pain was like an ice pick through her brain, and her lashes fluttered as she realized she was losing sight in one of her eyes. Sun-spots bloomed over her vision.

She swallowed down nausea, and slowly, carefully released the magic. The ball decelerated, and then reversed direction entirely. She sat even straighter, her chin high and her gaze focused vaguely straight ahead. She could have pushed through the pain, but it wasn’t worth it. Severe Will-strain could cause permanent damage. ‘My ability to cast magic is more important than even the University. I won’t jeopardize that.’ Additionally, her Conduit was only rated to two hundred thaums, and opposing another’s magic put more stress on them. If she kept pushing, she risked her Conduit shattering. She had the weak backup inside the lip of her boot, so she might be able to avoid a total loss of control, but she had no gold to buy another replacement.

There was no way she could do what Lacer wanted. She accepted this, and kept her breathing even and her hands pressed to the table to keep her fingers from trembling as she waited for the punishment that would no doubt follow seemingly willful failure.

Professor Lacer didn’t say anything at first, but she could feel his Will in the air, turning his gaze into a sucking hole.

The hair on her arms and the back of her neck lifted, and she was reminded of what it felt like to walk alone and defenseless through a dark room, with the absolute certainty that something cold and hungry was watching from the shadows.

But he said only, “See me after class, Siverling. In my office.” He turned that horrible gaze on Westbay for a moment, who quailed under its force, then stalked back to the front of the room.

Westbay watched him walk away, then looked to her, and she could see the horror she felt reflected in his eyes. “Sebastien—” he whispered.

Slowly, minutely, she shook her head. “No,” she mouthed back. “You promised,” she said, slightly louder, but slowly. “Maintain your honor, and hold your tongue, Westbay.”

She could only hope that Professor Lacer wasn’t angry enough to expel her immediately. If she had till the end of term, at least, she was sure she could come up with a plan of some sort.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-43-alliance-with-the-nightmare-pack/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

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Chapter 43 - Alliance with the Nightmare Pack


Oliver

Month 12, Day 2, Wednesday 6:30 p.m.

Two bodyguards accompanied Oliver as he rode through the dark streets atop his Erythrean horse. Even though his people successfully fought off the Morrows’ blatant attack on the warehouse holding his new miniature farm, he was wary of their next move.

Oliver knew he was unlikely to be ambushed in Nightmare Pack territory, but the Morrows were known for their occasional recklessness, and it wouldn’t be entirely unprecedented for his meeting with the Nightmare Pack leader to be a trap.

If anything happened, he and his two guards could fight back, and if the situation called for it, his horse could flee like the wind. Oliver wasn’t so puffed up on his own pride that he couldn’t admit that sometimes running away was the smart decision. One could always get revenge later.

Nightmare Pack territory was in the heart of the Mires, even poorer than his own territory, especially after the Verdant Stag’s various programs to improve the quality of life for his people. Here, though, the number of non-humans was noticeable. Already, he’d seen signs of a hag, a vampire, and what was either a gremlin or a homunculus.

The gang provided three main things: a safe place for non-humans to live, less open discrimination, and a sense of community. But then, it also pressured the more powerful and useful non-humans to join the gang, supported certain kinds of crime, and made law enforcement even more reluctant to help those who needed them most.

Oliver and his bodyguards stopped at the gate in front of the Nightmare Pack headquarters, a once-proud manor with a small yard in the heart of the slums. They dismounted and handed their reins to a young man who hurriedly led the horses around to the back. If he was truly wary, Oliver would have insisted the horses stay out front, ready to go, but that would have been an insult, and an inauspicious start to the alliance he hoped to form tonight.

A man with the look of a wolf in his eyes and the shape of his jaw opened the manor’s front door and bowed, motioning for them to step inside. “Welcome, Lord Stag. The pack leader awaits you.”

The manor was old, the dark wood of the interior scuffed and scratched from many years of heavy, reckless traffic and sharp-clawed footsteps. The hallways were wide, the walls covered in lifelike paintings of nature and the hunt, and mounted with the occasional taxidermied trophy.

The man gestured silently to a set of open double doors, and Oliver stepped through alone.

The room beyond was expansive, with a burning fireplace at the far end, simple rugs and a mismatched scattering of comfortable chairs and couches filling most of the rest of the room. The windowsills spilled over with potted plants, and vines crawled up the glass. Stylistic sculptures of animals in different stages of transformation between man and beast were bolted onto stands or the walls, presumably to protect them from being accidentally knocked over and shattered.

Another man stood within, facing away from the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back. He was gazing up at a large oil painting of wolves falling upon a deer in the forest, but turned when Oliver entered.

His eyes were a light amber that seemed to shine in contrast to skin that was almost as dark as his hair, which hung in tiny braids to his shoulders. His cheekbones sat high and a thick, closely trimmed beard covered his chin. Despite the semi-casual suit vest he wore and the cultured way he held himself, the wildness behind his eyes was palpable. “Welcome, Lord Stag.”

Oliver was suddenly hit with the irony of holding that pseudonym before a man like this. The leader of the Nightmare Pack was well-known to be a lycanthrope, which was the common name for those skin-walkers who could take on and off the skin of a wolf, transforming into the animal at will. Still, even in front of a wolf, a stag was not defenseless.

Oliver bowed in return, removing his mask as he straightened. They were alone, and as the one who had requested this meeting, it would have been quite rude to keep his face concealed. “Thank you, Lord Lynwood.”

“No need for a title. I am no lord. I am the alpha, and I am not above my people. I lead them, I do not own them,” the other man said.

Oliver couldn’t tell if there was hostility in Lynwood’s tone, or if he was simply sensing the watchful vigilance of a natural predator whose magic was not just something he wielded but a part of his body. So different from Oliver. “It is a beautiful painting,” he said, diverting the topic of conversation.

Lynwood didn’t give even the barest hint of a smile, though he turned to look up at the huge piece again. “Art, in its most pure form, is a melding of the unadulterated instinct and passion of a beast and the conscious control of a man. As I studied to gain control of the canvas, I found I also gained control of myself.”

“You painted this?”

Lynwood’s lips stretched into a small, satisfied smile. “To the outside world, many know me only as a somewhat eccentric artist. You might be surprised to learn that I fund a significant portion of our operations off sales of my work. Those with too much money in their coffers love to show off their deeper sense of artistic appreciation by paying exorbitant sums for grand paintings that hold a message they fear and yet pretend to understand.” He gestured around to the other paintings and sculptures scattered about. “It is not all my own work. I encourage all those in my pack to find joy in creation as well as destruction.”

“I admire your approach,” Oliver said. “That’s why I requested to meet with you today. I want to discuss a mutual endeavor that I believe could benefit both our people.”

Lynwood turned, eyed Oliver assessingly, then motioned to a couple of chairs in front of the fire. “Please, let us sit, and you can elucidate.”

Once they were both seated, Oliver said simply, “The Morrows.”

Lynwood raised his eyebrows, a silent encouragement to continue.

“You’ve likely heard of the harassment the Verdant Stag has been facing from them. When I first opened the inn and created the Stags, the Morrows resisted, but I was determined and they backed down. Due to the small size of my operation, the lack of critical territory under my domain, and my willingness to spend extravagantly to hold the area, it would have cost them more to get rid of me than the Morrows could earn by holding the territory. Or such was my theory, anyway.”

“I remember this time,” Lynwood said, nodding.

“However, they continued to abuse the people in my territory, perhaps even more than before. In addition to their usual criminal behavior—the kidnappings for their whorehouses and fighting arena, selling the worst of their addictive alchemy products, threatening people for money and favors—they harassed anyone who wore my symbol or simply lived in the wrong place. So I created enforcers to protect my people.”

Oliver gave a humorless grin, the show of teeth meant to speak to the wolf in the other man. Lynwood wasn’t the first lycanthrope Oliver had met, and thank the stars above for that experience. “The Morrows respected my boundaries once they had no other choice, at first, but recently they’ve begun their harassment again. This time, their attacks are pointed and brutal. It’s obvious they hope to collapse my organization entirely by harrying us until we cannot keep up with the cost of the damage and those within the territory lose faith in us. They plan to then take back the entirety of what was once theirs.”

“And how is this relevant to me?”

Oliver smiled again. “The Morrows overstep their boundaries. Just as they overestimate their infallibility.”

“Oh?”

“I know they’ve made themselves a thorn in your side, too. They take your people for their brothels, and they have a particular interest in non-humans for their underground pit fights. I would assume they also feed addictive substances into your territory. They don’t do all this overtly, perhaps. They don’t want to drive you to retaliate in force. But they don’t respect your authority, and they are harming your people.”

Lynwood steepled his fingers together in his lap. “It’s natural that we bicker and snap at each other. If one organization falls, another will rise to take its place, and who is to say the new order will be better than the old? Balance is important. Or, at least, the right kind of instability.” Was Lynwood hinting that if the Nightmare Pack helped the Stags take out the Morrows, his gang might not actually benefit in the end? Perhaps there was some fear that the Stags would grow greedy and turn on them next, Oliver mused.

“That’s where you’re wrong. Balance is important, I agree, but instability is only preferable if you believe that order would not bring prosperity to you and yours. By all accounts, you are a reasonable man, Lynwood. I’m a reasonable man too, when not pushed to extremes. War is costly. I wouldn’t choose it if I had other, more practical, options.”

Oliver was telling the truth. The Morrows had attacked him and killed two of his people. It wasn’t possible to back down now. They would crush him if he showed weakness. Even if by some miracle, they decided to stop harassing his people and let him keep operating, the Verdant Stag operation as a whole would still not be sustainable.

He was slowly being bled dry, and needed to increase the size and profitability of his operations to change the tide. If he could take out the Morrows and obtain even half their territory and operations—along with the more palatable streams of income—almost all of his problems would be solved in one fell swoop.

Oliver added, “In the interest of allowing as little instability as possible, I would suggest our two organizations agree to a nonaggression treaty, to be renegotiated in five years’ time.” This would give both of them time to consolidate their hold on what they gained from defeating their common enemy, without worry that either side would grow greedy and attempt to take more than their fair share.

“You are suggesting that we would benefit from allying with you against the Morrows?”

“Yes. In addition to stopping their current persecution of your people, I have no doubt some of their operations would be better managed in your hands. The fighting arena, for example. I’m sure you could provide voluntary participants, and I hear the income from the betting is quite high. They have control of Avery Park, which would seem a welcome addition to your territory. Perhaps a portion of their shops in the Night Market could do with a different owner?”

Lynwood stared at the fire for a long moment, but when he turned back to Oliver, his expression was still firmly unimpressed. “Be that as it may, it would require this operation to be successful. We might be larger than the Morrows if you count only the size of our territory and the number of people it contains, but we do not share their monetary resources. I am loath to conscript my people to fight and throw away their lives for an ally that cannot even manage to protect themselves without our help.”

“You’d be mistaken to think the Verdant Stag cannot protect itself. Surely you’ve heard of the consequences of the Morrows’ last attack on us?”

Lynwood nodded, the intensity of his amber-eyed gaze revealing an increased interest in this particular topic. “Indeed.”

“The Stags are merely more interested in supporting our own people and growing our interests than focusing unnecessary resources toward an extended skirmish. Additionally, even were we to take down the Morrows, we are still too small to hold the entire Morrow territory securely. It would be an invitation to others to try and take a piece of it, and the situation would spiral into endless conflict. That’s useless to us. I hope instead that we could both benefit from the destruction of the Morrows.”

Oliver paused, weighing his words. “Of course, our other option would be to take over only a portion of the Morrows’ operation and leave the rest open to the power struggles of the other gangs, which would only serve to destabilize and inconvenience the rest of the city.” The Nightmare Pack especially, since their territory was adjacent to the Morrows’, but Oliver left that part unsaid, sure that Lynwood knew what he meant.

“I have my doubts that the Verdant Stag could take out the Morrows as easily as you insinuate, at least without outside help. If not us, then perhaps the one who came to your aid recently. I hear she is called the Raven Queen. If we were to agree to this alliance, would she be included in this nonaggression treaty?” Lynwood was obviously fishing, hoping to learn Oliver’s connection to the mysterious rogue sorcerer.

“I do not control her, but we are acquainted, and she allows me some minor influence over her actions. The rumors about her are somewhat exaggerated. She is actually rather restrained, when not being harassed. She wouldn’t attack the Nightmare Pack without reason, and doubly so if I asked her politely not to.”

“The rumors may be exaggerated, but it is clear she is both bold and powerful,” Lynwood said, seeming more interested in the Raven Queen than he had been throughout the entire previous conversation. “Would she be adding her efforts to our own against the Morrows?”

“Perhaps, though I doubt she would take a front-line position. Her support against the warehouse attack was impromptu. She is quite busy and doesn’t take requests unless she finds them sufficiently valuable or…interesting.” He was playing into Siobhan’s reputation a bit, knowing that the less he said clearly, the more Lynwood would speculate, with his conclusions undoubtedly being more outlandish than the truth.

Oliver considered that Siobhan, a poor, self-educated young girl, was disguised as a young man with a completely different appearance and background, and secretly attending the University. He had to amend his previous thought. The truth was quite outlandish indeed. It was simply outlandish in a completely different direction than Lynwood would assume.

“How did you come to be associated with her?”

“A series of coincidences,” Oliver said.

Lynwood eyed him with some dissatisfaction. “Would it be possible for me to meet her?” he asked finally.

Oliver suppressed his expression of surprise, though a man such as Lynwood might be able to glean it from the responses he couldn’t control, like the change in his heartbeat or scent. “I could pass along your request, but I can make no guarantees.”

She would want to be paid, no doubt, and they would have to ensure that meeting in person didn’t disillusion Lynwood and endanger their alliance. All the rumors about her prowess were fabrications blown magnitudes out of proportion to reality, after all. It might be best to pretend to pass along the request and return with a denial. Or at least ensure the alliance was secure and the joint attack on the Morrows settled first, with the reward for meeting enough to make the risk worth it.

Oliver spoke before he had time to fully think through the idea, because he didn’t want his hesitation to be too obvious. “She enjoys tributes. She might be more likely to give an audience to someone who…gently incentivizes her.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly.

Lynwood pressed his fingertips together, settling back in satisfaction. “I understand.” His eyes gleamed with even more interest. “I agree to your proposal, Lord Stag, pending the appropriate particulars.”

“Wonderful.” Oliver reached into his pocket and brought out a rolled-up map of the city. “Let us work out the generalities, at least. Details can be solidified over time.” He laid the map over a short table. The area of their respective territories was painted with a translucent ink, with the parts of the city currently belonging to the Morrows divided between them.

Lynwood peered at it with interest, then pointed. “We’ll want a bit more of this area, all the way out to the canal.”

Oliver frowned. “That could be acceptable, if you’re willing to give up a little more of this residential district.”

They haggled over territory, and then went on to decide on the allocation of their respective combat forces, joint efforts to keep conflicts suppressed in the short term, and what businesses and enterprises each of them would swallow.

When they were both moderately satisfied, feeling that they hadn’t gotten a very good deal but not an exceedingly bad one either—which probably meant it was quite fair to both parties—Lynwood asked, “So, I assume you have planned further than dividing up the territory. How exactly do you propose we bring about the Morrows’ downfall?”

The edges of Oliver’s mouth curled up a little too far in a way he knew made him look vulpine, but Lynwood didn’t seem disturbed, his own lips pulling back to reveal sharp-edged teeth.

A note from AzaleaEllis

This was the first of the bonus chapters, which you can thank my lovely, lovely patrons for.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-44-chastisment/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 44 - Chastisement

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 4, Friday 3:45 p.m.

When class ended, Professor Lacer left immediately, not bothering to wait for the handful of students who wanted to linger and speak to him. “I have office hours,” he announced as he strode past them. “Use them.”

Damien and Sebastien shared a look of sick concern, and she took longer than necessary to gather up her belongings, trying to settle herself. Fearing that she would gather more ire by dawdling, she followed the gently curved hallway to Professor Lacer’s office. She felt sick, not only because of straining her Will beyond its limits, but because she didn’t know the extent of his anger toward her. ‘I will plead with him if I need to. But only if I need to.’ She briefly considered trying to tell some sort of half-truth that would mollify him, but her mind was too scrambled to think through the options and their ramifications.

It had been such a stupid mistake, and she regretted compounding it with an attempt to hide it. It would be horrible to be expelled, but as long as she could keep her magic and her life, she would always find a way to claw her way back up again.

She paused outside the door for a few breaths, blinking in an attempt to clarify the vision in her right eye. She pressed her trembling fingers to her sides, straightened her back, and rapped softly on the open doorframe.

“Enter,” Lacer said, his voice clipped. He’d sat as at his desk and was scribbling a note. His scowl was harsh enough to toast bread. “Close the door behind you,�� he said without looking up.

She did so, stopping a few feet in front of his desk. She didn’t dare to take a seat without his permission. She resisted the urge to fidget or wince with every ice-pick spike of the headache impaling her brain.

“Are you aware that without me, you would not be studying here?” he asked.

Her heart clenched. “Y—” Her voice broke, and she had to swallow before replying. “Yes.”

“And you are aware that if you make me dissatisfied, I can have you expelled before the day is out?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think there is anyone at this university whose opinion is more important than mine?”

“No,” she said. ‘Which is precisely why you can never know what I’ve been up to,’ she thought.

“Are you also aware that because of the special circumstances of your admittance, your performance reflects back upon me? If you perform poorly, or act inappropriately, my judgment will be in question. Honestly, I am currently questioning my own judgment.”

Sebastien suppressed a wince. “Yes.”

He stared at her until she wondered if she was supposed to say something else, the judgment in his gaze almost a physical weight on her body.

She couldn’t tell the truth, but she was afraid to lie, and so silence was her only refuge.

Finally, he said, “Did Mr. Westbay ask you to lose to him?”

Sebastien blinked twice. “No,” she said, her tone as neutral as she could make it.

“So you chose to pander to him. I am unsure if that makes it better or worse. I had thought you would have more pride than that.”

She remained silent, sluggishly realizing that Professor Lacer thought she’d thrown the match with Damien because he was a Westbay, and that she was either afraid to openly best him, or was trying to get on his good side by making Damien look better than he was.

‘Professor Lacer hasn’t noticed the signs of Will-strain? Perhaps he simply never considered that I could be that stupid.’ She was filled with relief. It was a plausible motive that had nothing to do with fleeing from the coppers, attacking another student, or using blood magic. She couldn’t overtly agree with his assumption, though, in case he really did have some divination running to reveal lies. She bowed her head, the shame of the movement all too real. “It will not happen again,” she promised, meaning every word.

“See that it does not. I will bestow my forgiveness this time. In future, if you are going to curry favor with others at the expense of your pride, do it better. I will not preach about honor and chivalry, but please, at least have the cunning not to embarrass me. You will comport yourself with my reputation in mind at all times. And in exchange for today, you will win at least fifty contribution points in the end of term exhibitions.” He paused, as if waiting for her to protest.

“I understand,” she said. Rather than worrying about drawing attention to the persona of Sebastien Siverling in the exhibitions, her immediate thought was to wonder how difficult it was to earn fifty points as a first term student. With what she knew of Professor Lacer’s standards, it was likely a hellishly difficult demand.

“Good. Now get out.”

She complied without hesitation. The relief was heady. A little scolding and a task to redeem herself. There had been no offensive spells, nothing to publicly shame her, and most importantly, no expulsion. It seemed that he hadn’t even noticed her Will-strain. ‘Could it be that the rumors surrounding Professor Lacer’s temper are somewhat exaggerated?’ She wanted to laugh.

Damien Westbay was pacing in the hallway outside the door, fidgeting with his already perfect hair and unwrinkled clothes. He stilled when he saw her. “What did he say? I can talk to—”

The smile slipped from her face. She grabbed him by the arm and kept walking. ��You will not talk to him.”

“I’m sorry, Sebastien, it’s not right that you’re the one to get in trouble for this. I—”

“It’s fine. He was angry, but only because I embarrassed him with my public weakness. I have to participate in the end of term exhibitions and earn at least fifty contribution points. That’s it.”

Westbay stumbled along beside her. “Oh. Well, that’s…good?”

“Yes. Except I doubt I’ll be coming back next term if I don’t succeed.”

“He’s that angry? Sebastien…maybe we should just explain what happened?” he said reluctantly. “We could leave out the details of how I got hurt. There’s no way I’d be expelled, I’m a Westbay, and we might even be able to convince him not to inform my father—”

“I could still be expelled,” she snapped. “Can’t you get that past your thick skull? I’m not worried about you, I’m worried about myself. The rest of us don’t get to take the paved road through life, Westbay. There are consequences for our actions.”

He was silent for a while, and kept walking beside her even when she released her grip on his arm. “Mood swings,” he said finally, his tone placating. “You need to go to the infirmary, Sebastien. They can help with the Will-strain.”

“No.” The anger she was feeling was perfectly legitimate, but a vivid desire to strangle the bullheaded, oblivious boy had her seriously considering slamming him into an empty classroom.

The urge was strong enough that she had to concede, at least to herself, that her decision-making faculties were impaired.

“I’ll drag you there myself if I have to. This isn’t about your preferences or wanting to seem tough. It’s not even about getting in trouble. This is about your safety, your well-being. I won’t let you jeopardize everything just because you’re feeling stubborn. Your judgment is impaired, so if I have to, I’ll make this decision for you.”

“Where did you grow the stones to act like this is any of your business?” she muttered, gritting her teeth. Before he could reply, she held up a hand toward him. “Alright, alright, stop. I don’t need to go to the infirmary. I have a friend who can help me.”

“Really?” He peered at her skeptically.

She scowled. “Really. I’m going there now. You may not have noticed, but I do have a working brain, even if it feels like it’s being stomped on by a rabid cow right now. I know I need healing.”

The worry and doubt smoothed away from his face. “Good,” he said, nodding imperiously. “If you’re not feeling better by Monday, do not come to class.”

She rolled her eyes and walked faster, hoping to outpace him.

He jogged a little to catch up, but was thankfully silent all the way to the glass transportation tubes on the south side of the white cliffs. He waved as she used her student token to activate one. “Feel better soon! And don’t come back until you do!”

She didn’t wave back.

By the time she got to Oliver’s house, the headache was making her nauseated.

Oliver took one look at her and said, “What happened?”

“Will-strain,” she replied simply, her voice soft, because she felt like speaking loudly or opening her mouth too wide might send the contents of her stomach spilling out over his polished shoes. “My professor asked me to cast in class. I don’t want to risk the healers at the University infirmary. Do you think I could see…whoever the Verdant Stag usually uses?”

“I’ll hail a carriage,” he said, though instead of doing it himself, he motioned to a servant, who hurried outside to the street. Oliver strode off into the kitchen and came back with a steaming mug of dark liquid. “I don’t keep a lot of potions in the house. They don’t work very well on me, so… The caffeine should help with your headache.”

She took the mug gratefully, sipping slowly.

“The next time something like this happens, perhaps you should consider refusing to cast magic,” he said.

“The next time?” she groaned.

Oliver gave her a wry smile, but it didn’t disguise his worry.

The servant poked their head back through the front door and said, “I’ve got one, sir.”

Sebastien took the mug of coffee with her into the carriage, which thankfully had shock absorbers to mitigate the bumps and jolts. After a few minutes of sitting and sipping, felt well enough to talk, as long as she kept her eyes closed. “Has anything happened since I’ve been back at the University? Anything new with the Morrows?” She kept her voice low enough that no one would overhear them.

“Nothing big. There’s been some harassment, especially on the edges of our territory, but we’ve been patrolling, and we’ve invested a lot into improving the equipment and number of our enforcers so we don’t seem like such an easy target.”

“That’s good.”

“We also made an alliance with the Nightmare Pack.”

She opened one eye. “Who?”

“Another gang with no love for the Morrows. The leader would like to meet with you. Or, to be more specific, he would like to meet with the Raven Queen,” Oliver said, lifting one side of his mouth in a half-smile that lacked real amusement.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was another wanted poster displaying an evil version of her face glaring out underneath a hood. Only this time, the caption said, ‘Alias: The Raven Queen. Dangerous practitioner of Forbidden Magics. Flee on sight. Report any information to law enforcement. Reward for information leading to arrest: Five hundred gold crowns.’

“Flee on sight?” she muttered. Five hundred gold crowns was more than many poor families made in a year. It seemed they were taking her more seriously after her recent appearance. Even the most copper-hating or loyal person might be swayed by such a large bounty.

Oliver folded the paper away and tucked it back into his pocket. “I’ll let you consider the meeting when you are more lucid. There will be incentives.”

“I’ll have to do something to pay for the healer,” she mumbled. “Pretending to be the Raven Queen shouldn’t be much harder than pretending to be a boy.”

There was a pause, and then he said, “It seems you’ve had it worse than us. Will everything be alright, once you return?”

“I hope so,” she sighed. “The pressure keeps rising, but once I’m better, I’ll be able to handle it. Is it okay for me to meet this healer as Sebastien?”

Oliver hesitated, then said, “Well, I’m taking you there as Oliver Dryden, not the leader of the Stags. Healer Nidson is discreet, and there’s an easy explanation for how a University student got Will-strain, even if it is strange that you wouldn’t stay to be treated there.”

“We need to find a more thorough way to keep Sebastien and Siobhan separate. I can’t be switching back and forth at will. Eventually, the wrong person will notice something.”

“I have some ideas about that. We’ll talk about it once you’re better.”

The healer retained by the Verdant Stag was brusque but competent, the type of person whose eyes wouldn’t widen in surprise even if Oliver brought Myrddin himself, resurrected, into his home. Nidson gave Sebastien a quick succession of potions which calmed the pain and slowed her thoughts till they felt like cold molasses within her skull. Then he made her guzzle down a large mug filled with what tasted like a modified nourishing draught, till her stomach sloshed with every movement. He laid her down on a slate table with a Circle carved into it, then drew a spell array around her prone form.

She dozed off, opening her eyes some time later to see Nidson casting a healing spell with various exotic components as the Sacrifice, some of which she recognized, and some of which she could only speculate about.

She woke again in a carriage with poor suspension, every bump of the cobbled road jostling through her. She was slumped against Oliver, her head on his shoulder, wrapped in a blanket. He pressed a hand against her hair, keeping her from sitting up. “I need you to turn into Siobhan. Can you do that?”

She pressed the amulet against her chest and pushed at it with a small pulse of Will. The spike of pain this caused was dull and distant.

“Sleep,” Oliver said. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Siobhan did feel better when she woke up, except for the disorientation and the horrible pressure in her bladder. She was alone, but recognized the small, spartan room and the door made of iron bars.

She was at Liza’s place, in the warded, secret section of her home. After relieving herself using Liza’s enchanted chamber pot, Siobhan made her way upstairs.

Liza was sitting in the apartment above, among the magical reference books, animal cages, and growing plants, sipping dark liquid that gave off a whiff of nostril-burning alcohol mixed with the earthy bitterness of coffee. She was petting a neon-bright bird that sat trilling musically on her lap. Her eyes were bloodshot, with dark, puffy circles below, and she’d tied her curly hair back into a low bun to partially disguise its unwashed frizziness. “You’re awake.”

“I feel much better,” Siobhan said. She had a faint headache still, but it was nothing compared to the horseshoe nails of pain that had been trying to chisel her skull apart, and she could see normally out of both eyes.

Liza grunted around a mouthful of alcohol-laced coffee. “You’re lucky there’s no permanent damage.”

Siobhan acknowledged that with a wince. “What time is it?”

“About five in the morning. On Monday.”

Siobhan’s eyes widened. Whatever that healer had given her must have been an extra-strength tranquilizer. It might have even slowed some of her bodily functions. ‘Or…Liza stayed up caring for me and casting spells to empty my bladder and bowels while I slept.’ The thought sent heat rushing to her cheeks. She coughed and looked away. “Oliver brought me here so I could sleep through the scrying attempts?”

“Yes. Of which there have been several. The coppers are more interested in you than I expected, child.”

Siobhan rubbed her forehead. “Unfortunately. Thank you for taking care of me.”

Liza waved a tired hand. “It is far from my first time caring for an invalid. At least you were still and silent. As long as this doesn’t happen again, you may be forgiven. I am more concerned that the solution we came to is already proving insufficient. Did the divination attempts push you so far as to cause Will-strain?”

“Oh, no, that was something else.”

Liza’s mouth tightened judgmentally. “Something else,” she repeated, supremely unimpressed. “Perhaps you should take a good look at your life choices.” She tucked the bird under one arm and put it in one of the cages scattered around the room. “Come,” she ordered, walking into the official part of her house through the attached closet door.

She made a second cup of coffee, eyed Siobhan, then added a moderate splash of liquor to it before handing it over. “Drink.”

Siobhan accepted it awkwardly. She wasn’t a fan of alcohol, but the caffeine was a lifesaver, and the minty burn of whatever Liza had added immediately provided a boost of vivacity, rather than the mellowing, depressive effect she remembered from her other attempts to drink.

Liza stared at her until Siobhan felt uncomfortable. She wondered if Oliver bringing her here was actually not okay. Or perhaps Liza was just trying to calculate how much coin she could extort from Siobhan in her weakened state. Finally, Liza spoke. “You need a more permanent solution to the scrying attempts if they are going to continue like this—and if your lifestyle continues to create moments when you cannot safely or consistently counteract them.”

“A more permanent solution, like retrieving my blood from Harrow Hill?”

“Harrow Hill has some of the best wards in Gilbratha. Theoretically, I might be able to bypass them, but in practice, with only nine thousand thaums under my command, such a course of action would be like a dragon attacking a sky kraken—an act of hubris bordering on stupidity. Any mistake would only end up giving them more opportunity to track you down. If our last transaction was any indication, it also seems that you could not afford to hire me for such a project. However, there are more creative solutions you might employ. The blood need not be retrieved, as long as they cannot realistically use it to find you.”

Siobhan’s eyes widened, her attention caught on the mention of Liza’s capacity. That was only a couple of thousand below the level when one could start thinking about getting certified as an Archmage, though a lot more went into being acknowledged as an Archmage than simple capacity. Siobhan’s eyes narrowed. “How old are you?”

Liza rolled her eyes. “Well, you just put your foot in your mouth without hesitation, don’t you?” she asked, but didn’t seem to be actually offended. “I’m sixty.” She was almost as old as Professor Lacer. Of course, neither of them looked like a commoner of the same age might, with all the magic they cast keeping them young. Liza looked closer to thirty. “Due to my advanced age, and my particular background, I have valuable experience and feel qualified to give advice on this. I participated in the Haze War, and I know first-hand that there is always a loophole that can be exploited in any ward or defensive system. If there’s no loophole, one can be created. Often this weakness lies in human error and laziness and not the external defenses. Do some research. Necessity is the mother of innovation, as they say. Alternatively, you can hire me to find a more permanent solution, for the small sum of eight hundred gold crowns.”

Siobhan sipped her minty coffee. “Do you have any particular ideas?”

Liza gave her a deadpan stare, apparently not tired enough to be tricked into giving up valuable information. “If you’re feeling better, you can leave.”

Siobhan hesitated, wondering if she should offer to pay Liza for the care and lodging while she’d been unconscious. Then she smacked herself mentally. If she could get away with something for free from the woman, she should run before Liza overcame her sleep-deprivation.

The sun was still a couple of hours from rising as Siobhan hurried out, and the streets were empty, a layer of unbroken snow covering everything. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself and felt the angry grumble of her empty stomach. Returning to Sebastien’s form in an empty alley felt safest, even though she probably could have transformed in the middle of the street without being noticed. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d left the University in a few days before. Hopefully Liza hadn’t thought that was strange. Women did wear trousers, after all, and even if they didn’t fit her very well, no normal person would jump to the correct conclusion.

When Sebastien got back to the University, she grabbed a change of clothes and went straight to the showers, luxuriating in the warm water and solitude.

She was again asleep in her bed when the rest of her dorm finally woke. As the sounds of early morning preparation woke her, she realized she hadn’t done any of her homework over the weekend. Rubbing her temples, she took a deep breath, then fumbled with the vial containing the anti-anxiety potion and swallowed a half-dose. ‘I needed the rest. Missing one weekend’s worth of homework won’t lower my grade so far that I fail. Probably.’

Westbay, who was just getting dressed as she left, gave her a questioning look.

She raised an eyebrow at him, and he nodded and smiled as if she’d instead given him a reassuring, “Good morning, friend!” With a snort, she left him to comb his hair three hundred times, knowing he would keep at it until he’d beaten every single strand into submission.

She pondered her situation as she ate the bland breakfast slop. Now that her mind was clear again, she realized she’d been acting irrationally. Maybe it was a byproduct of the original Will-strain, added to the ongoing stress that she hadn’t been able to escape even before then.

She had been focused on peripherally important things, at the expense of neglecting the biggest problem in her life. This weekend could have been entirely disastrous if not for Oliver’s quick thinking. ‘What would have happened if I was unconscious and helpless outside of Liza’s wards, and the coppers scried for me?’ She shuddered at the thought. ‘What happens when they scry me while I’m in the middle of casting a difficult spell, and the distraction makes my concentration slip, and I lose control of the magic?’

She forced herself to keep eating despite her sudden lack of appetite. She needed all her energy, and the basic meal options barely provided enough to sate a working thaumaturge’s increased caloric needs.

‘Letting the coppers keep my blood is unacceptable. I have to figure out how to stop their scrying attempts for good, before all the different pressures add up and something critical finally snaps. Either I’ll get caught, or I’ll lose control and succumb to Will-strain when they try and scry me at a bad time, or someone will notice when the seemingly unrelated Sebastien Siverling is casting anti-divination spells at the same times the coppers are searching for Siobhan Naught. I want to help the Stags, and I need to repay my debt, and it would be wonderful not to worry about sleep any more, but I have to dig myself out of this hole before anything else. Getting rid of these scrying attempts will make my entire life easier. I need to completely reprioritize. I cannot believe I’ve been so complacent even as I thought I was trying my best to become prepared.’

Through her shirt, she rubbed the warding medallion her grandfather had given her, the fatigue and the shame mixing to form a prickle of tears behind her eyes. She blinked them back rapidly. ‘I still have a long way to go,’ she admitted to herself.

Sebastien hurried to complete her homework before the breakfast period ended, taking it as easy as possible through her first two classes. As was becoming her habit when she had a problem, she headed to the library during her afternoon free period before Practical Casting. Such a comprehensive repository of information would surely have a solution hidden among the shelves.

She was in the glass tunnel between the main building and the library when the sirens went off, loud and piercing and screaming of danger with their unnatural tone.

Everyone dropped whatever they were doing, some panicking, wanting to move but not knowing where to go, others moving with purpose, and a couple looking around with anxious confusion.

“It’s an Aberrant,” Sebastien heard someone say.

She realized then that she’d frozen as soon as she heard the sound, and forced herself to keep walking. Her head swiveled back and forth, her eyes wide as they absorbed everything, searching for a hint of the danger.

One of the librarians opened the door to the library, waving for the students to enter. “Come take shelter! The building has wards, and if necessary, we can take refuge in the reinforced lower levels.”

Sebastien moved as quickly as she could, her face feeling like a bloodless mask. The wails of the sirens rang in her ears till the sounds overlapped and drowned everything else out, like the surface of a lake in a rainstorm.

A note from AzaleaEllis

This was the second of the bonus chapters. Thank you patrons! (I still have to post this week's normal Thursday chapter on here, but we are caught up on my website.)

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-45-sirens/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 45 - Sirens

A note from AzaleaEllis

Hey guys!

There is a chapter that runs concurrently with the events of this one, from Thaddeus's POV, available to supporters at any tier over on my Patreon.

Thaddeus Interlude - Codename: Moonsable

Learn more: https://www.patreon.com/azaleaellis

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 7, Monday 12:45 p.m.

It wasn’t the first time Sebastien had heard Aberrant sirens. However, the prior experience did nothing to calm her, as the sound only brought back memories she would rather have forgotten. She looked around for signs of chaos and destruction, but saw only panicking students and the faculty directing them all to safety.

Clutching her school satchel in one hand and her Conduit in the other, she joined the congregating students in the central atrium of the library. The whole ground floor of the building was filled.

“I heard someone say it was an Aberrant,” a young woman said. “Do you know where it appeared?”

“It might not be an Aberrant,” an older woman said comfortingly. “The sirens don’t distinguish between different magical dangers. It could just be a rogue blood sorcerer casting some dangerous magic.”

A nearby man said, “You know blood magic users are more likely to mutate into Aberrants, right? That’s not exactly reassuring.”

A boy fidgeted, looking around as if a monstrous mutant might pop out from behind one of the other students. “My older sister is a copper. She told me the last time the sirens went off, it was a loose elemental, an enraged sylphide from the Plane of Air. Someone attempted an over-ambitious conjuring without strong enough bindings, and it went wrong. The sylphide choked the air right out of a whole city block of people. Drowned without a drop of water.”

He’d spoken loudly, and some of those around reached for their chests and throats as if to ensure they were still breathing properly.

Sebastien knew it was nothing compared to the destruction the right kind of Aberrant could wreak. ‘At least you can reason with a sylphide.’ Fortunately, most people who lost control of their magic were simply killed or mentally disabled. It was rare for a spell to go so horribly wrong that the caster mutated.

“What if it’s an attack on the city wards?” someone asked.

“That’s ridiculous,” someone else snorted. “Even the Titans would know better than to besiege Gilbratha. The wards are unbreakable.”

“It could be the kraken.”

“The kraken hasn’t been seen for the last two hundred years. It’s an Aberrant, I tell you.”

“It doesn’t matter what it is, nothing is going to get past the library wards. They were cast by Archmage Zard,” the older woman said, one arm around her frightened friend.

That seemed to calm most of the students until one girl whispered, “But I have family in the city… What about them?”

“If they know what’s good for them, they’ll get to the shelters,” a boy said.

Sebastien wanted to snap at them all to shut up, wanted to pace back and forth, wanted to cast some magic so she could feel like she was actually doing something useful. She pressed her way out of the crowd and brought her Will to bear. Creating a Circle with her middle fingers touching her thumbs and awkwardly curling a pinky around her Conduit, she brought out a hum from deep in her chest, casting the esoteric self-calming spell that Newton had taught her.

As she forced her body to calm, she realized she’d been more agitated than she’d realized. Her heartbeat slowed, the stress-response chemicals burning in her blood cooled, and her muscles relaxed a little more with every deep hum.

When she finally opened her eyes, the panic of the other students seemed a little absurd. ‘We’re safe. And even if we weren’t, sitting around and worrying about it won’t make us safer. If we aren’t already prepared, then it’s already too late. Best to just get on with life.’ She didn’t have the luxury of spare time to waste.

Sebastien nudged back through the crowd to use one of the search crystals, burning a card with keywords about divination in its brazier. She’d picked up an armful of books and was looking for an out-of-the-way table when she noticed Newton at a spot that would be perfect. With the library so packed, there weren’t many other options.

“Can I sit here?” she asked. Her shoulders were beginning to tense again from the screaming of the sirens and the palpable tension of the crowd. The rationality she’d struggled to achieve was already being overridden by deep-seated wariness as her eyes flicked around mistrustfully.

Newton looked up a little slowly, as if he’d been focused on the handwritten sheaf of notes in front of him, but his eyes hadn’t been moving across the page, just staring at the same spot. “Oh, hello, Sebastien. Sure, feel free to join me, as long as you don’t expect entertaining company. I’m afraid I’m a little…preoccupied.” His face was drawn, and though his posture was proper, something about his unfocused eyes spoke of deep fatigue.

She sat, her back a little too straight, even for her. “Even better. I’d prefer not to sit around speculating.”

When the sirens suddenly stopped a couple of minutes later, Newton let out a deep breath, but his fingers kept worrying at his note paper until it was unusable. He somehow appeared both relieved and yet even more worried at the same time.

Sebastien tried to conceal her own relief. If the sirens were turned off, that meant the coppers believed they had dealt with the problem, or at least that it was contained and no longer a potential danger to the whole city. They would have to wait for confirmation before leaving the library, even so.

She eyed Newton. “That spell you taught me is useful. Especially for situations like this,” she offered, trying not to make her concern obvious.

He met her gaze for a long few seconds.

“I also have some of that anti-anxiety potion from the infirmary left,” she added.

He gave her a small smile. “Is this a role-reversal, Sebastien? You looking out for me?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes, when you’re really tired, you don’t realize how hard you’re fighting it. Your body tightens up until you’re like this taut little rock on the edge of a precipice. If you can rest, when you wake up everything seems a little more manageable, and you have the option to be flexible instead of shatter.”

“Sound advice. Almost as if you know from experience,” he said, his wry smile growing.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m used to fatigue. It’s the people that bother me.”

“Right,” he said, sniggering behind his hand. But he took her hint and spent a couple of minutes humming, performing the same esoteric spell he’d taught her.

When he opened his eyes, she looked up from the irritatingly oblique divination reference she was trying to read.

“You were right, I’m tired,” he said. “But I’m used to fatigue, too. It’s the fact that my family is out there in the city, possibly in danger, that worries me.”

“Oh.” She had no idea what to say to that.

“They don’t live in the best neighborhood,” Newton continued. “And as you might not be surprised to learn, Gilbratha’s emergency shelters are well over capacity in the poorer areas. Sometimes you need to bribe the guards to get in. And my family…well, my father’s fallen ill. He’s been out of work for the last few weeks, and without him—” Newton pressed his lips together and shook his head. “All of us Moores are stubborn. I’m just worried they chose to stay at home, block the doors, and hide under the beds rather than begging to be let into a shelter.”

Newton had already been worried about money, spending his extra time tutoring and taking the student liaison job to ease the burden of tuition. If his family was poor enough without his father’s income that they had to worry they couldn’t spare the coin to get into the shelters, they almost certainly wouldn’t be able to afford for Newton to continue his education. “Are there any other thaumaturges in your family? Someone you could trade messenger spells with?” Sebastien asked.

He shook his head. “My mom and sisters know some kitchen magic and a few esoteric things, but they’re not sorcerers. They don’t even have real Conduits. They’re definitely not powerful enough to defend themselves, either. My grandmother might have been able to cobble something together, but she’s going senile now, and I have her old Conduit.”

“The sirens have stopped, so they’ll probably let us out soon. You can go check on them personally. I doubt anyone will notice if you miss one class after all this pandemonium.”

“You’re right,” he said, relaxing a little.

She hesitated, realizing it might be rude to ask, but couldn’t stop herself from doing so anyway. “Was your father the main source of income for your family?”

He pressed his lips together. “Yes. And I know what you’re getting at. I have no University sponsor. If he doesn’t recover…” He took a deep breath. “Without my family’s help, I cannot pay my own way. It’s just too much. But if I leave now—” He paused, cleared his throat, and continued in a forcefully calm tone. “Apprentices don’t earn enough to support a family and also save much, especially not at first. It might be ten years or more before I could return to continue my education. Maybe never, if healer’s fees for my father become too much. I don’t want to be stuck doing busy work for a Master for the rest of my life.”

Sebastien wanted to suggest that Newton take his father to the Verdant Stag and see if they could help with something in the alchemy shop, or connect him to an affordable healer, but she didn’t. Sebastien Siverling should have no way to know about the Verdant Stag’s operations. ‘I’ll talk to Oliver about it. Maybe he can find some way to get the information to Newton’s family more surreptitiously,’ she told herself.

The library doors stayed closed for over an hour longer, until the faculty in the administrative section of the building received word that it was definitely safe to release the students.

Newton and most of the other students left as soon as they were able, but Sebastien remained behind, reading about divination while she waited for her next class. She struggled to focus, her mind returning several times to what might have caused the rogue magic sirens.

Divination was the only branch of magic she wasn’t particularly interested in. When she was younger, she’d had fantasies about getting tips from the spirits or seeing the future in a basin of water. It turned out that beyond basic things like dowsing for water or sympathetic scrying for a location, most humans weren’t built for real divination. The very talented could get vague hints about possible futures or answers about specific questions, but Sebastien had discovered that she could rarely even tell which card was next in a shuffled deck, much less divine the future.

All that to say, she didn’t have much knowledge or experience in divination, which meant trying to put a stop to the scrying attempts would require extensive research. She would wait to start practicing the actual spells, at least until tomorrow. She didn’t want to push herself too hard when her recovery was still fragile.

She felt no more confident about her plan by the time she left the library for Lacer’s Practical Casting class, but she was determined. There were no problems that a combination of magic, power, and knowledge-backed ingenuity couldn’t fix.

‘I’ll need to prioritize, though,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t handle practicing new utility spells, researching sleep spells, and trying to learn about emergency healing while also working on this. Everything but school work and getting my blood back from the coppers will have to wait.’

All the students were still absorbed by the earlier sirens, and the class was filled with chatter while they waited for Professor Lacer to arrive. It was normal for him to stride in with his coat flapping behind him after all the students had been seated for a few minutes, but the minutes ticked by and Professor Lacer still hadn’t arrived.

“He might not be coming,” said Westbay, who had taken it upon himself to sit beside Sebastien.

“Because of whatever caused the sirens?” she asked.

“Sometimes he gets called away from the University to deal with special cases, if the Red Guard is going to be slow in arriving or the coppers need an expert consultant.”

“There are rumors he was in the Red Guard at one point, too,” she said slowly.

Westbay shrugged. “Who knows? There are a lot of rumors about him, and a good half of them are completely ridiculous.”

“I thought… He’s a friend of your Family, right? You don’t know?”

Westbay gave her a flat stare. “I’m flattered you think so highly of me, but you know the ranks of the Red Guard are confidential, right? The Westbay Family does handle the internal security of the city, but I’m only the second son, not even finished with the University. They don’t tell me anything actually important,” he said with irritation.

The other students were starting to chatter about Lacer’s absence, and when one person speculated that the Charybdis Gulf’s kraken had taken him back to its sea lair because it wanted his seed for its progeny, Westbay raised his eyebrows as if to say, “See? I told you people make up the most ridiculous rumors.”

She conceded the point.

Professor Lacer still hadn’t arrived thirty minutes after his class was supposed to start, and whatever discipline the students might have retained had entirely evaporated away as they gossiped and worked on homework from other classes.

“I think it was probably an Aberrant,” a man seated near to Sebastien said, immediately drawing the attention of the students close enough to hear him. “Gilbratha gets at least one ‘creature of evil’ per year, on average, so it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

The woman he’d been speaking to grimaced. “Someone experimenting with blood magic? Some evil spell?” She shuddered delicately. “I cannot imagine why anyone would dabble in such a thing, knowing the consequences.”

Aberrants were actually quite rare, Sebastien knew, but it was true that most of the incidents came from thaumaturges dabbling in immoral things and corrupting their Will. If Gilbratha had one every year, it was only because of the high concentration of thaumaturges, both legal and criminal.

A younger girl, obviously a commoner by the low-quality fabric of her clothes, leaned toward the two. “Are all creatures of evil Aberrants? I thought some of them were…beasts, or evil Elementals, or something.”

The man shrugged. “Well, they might be. Only people who don’t really know what they’re talking about use the more generic terms, like ‘creatures of evil.’ Commoners and non-thaumaturges. It’s a catch-all for any living rogue magic element.”

The woman said, “Well, Aberrant or whatever it was, the Red Guard has handled it now, and we will know soon enough, once they have finished their investigation. It did not take them very long to send the all-clear signal, so it must not have been particularly difficult to deal with.”

Beside Sebastien, Ana nodded at that. “That is true. When I was a child, we were stuck in the basement shelter for almost two days. Mother was worried they were going to have to set up a sundered zone right in the middle of Gilbratha. A rather powerful sorcerer had corrupted his Will and broken while trying to revive a newly dead body. It took the Red Guard some time to figure out how to deal with the Aberrant that resulted.”

Westbay looked dour. “I remember that. Titus was here at the University, and Father was dealing with the incident. It was just me and the servants the whole time, waiting for news. All Aberrants have a weakness, though, a counter to their ability. You just have to find it.”

Sebastien frowned. “What about Aberrants like Metanite, or Red Sage? It seems like the Red Guard would have found their weakness by now, if they really had one. Metanite isn’t even contained within a sundered zone.” Sundered zones were the effect of the world’s most powerful barrier spell, and could contain almost anything. They created perfectly, unnaturally white quarantine domes, and were used exclusively to keep the world safe from Aberrants that couldn’t be otherwise killed or neutralized. Metanite had destroyed the one they put around it just as it destroyed literally everything else it touched with its void-black form.

Westbay shook his head. “Just because it can’t be killed doesn’t mean there is no counter. Metanite is slow and shows no signs of intelligence. With enough vigilance, space-warping magic is plenty to deal with it. And the Red Sage is contained within a sundered zone.”

“But it’s not stopped,” Sebastien argued. “Whatever ability Red Sage has is either summoning people to hear its prophecies or manipulating reality to make them come true, even from within its sundered zone.”

The spell that created sundered zones did not stop sapient creatures that could give their informed consent from entering the barrier, nor from exiting again as long as they had not been tainted by any tangible or magical effect within. Why this was, she didn’t know, but the Red Guard usually kept people from entering—or tried to—with a secondary barrier, and often a wall, too. The Red Sage could see the future, supposedly, and whatever it prophesied would come true. Except it pronounced better fates to those it liked, and horrible ones to those it disliked, and all its prophecies came true in the most horrible way possible. Desperate people continued to find ways past the security measures in the hopes of bribing the Aberrant to receive a favorable prophecy, no matter the destruction the fulfillment of the prophecy would inevitably wreak on the world and lives of those around them.

“Sure, but the Red Guard is working to mitigate the effects of the prophecies, as well as limit who gets to speak to the Red Sage. There haven’t been any major disasters in at least a hundred years. The Red Guard has almost entirely constrained it. Imagine what it could do, unchecked.”

“But that’s all they can do. Constrain it. Just the same as the Dawn Troupe. Dozens of people die every year to that one.”

“Again, because people are stupid and visit the Dawn Troupe on purpose, in the hopes of winning a boon. That’s not the Red Guard’s fault. Anyone who isn’t stupid or suicidally reckless is safe from the Dawn Troupe.”

“If enough people don’t visit, the agreement with the Aberrant is that it can go on a hunt,” Sebastien said. “That’s what it bargained. Don’t you think that has something to do with why the newspapers report it whenever someone manages to get out alive with a boon? It entices the general idiot specimen to offer up their own life so it’s not so obvious that the Red Guard actually has no way to stop the Dawn Troupe. And what about Lugubrious? Cinder Stag? That’s to say nothing of those Aberrants that you and I have no idea about. Can you truly tell me you don’t think they exist? Aberrants that they can’t catch? Ones they don’t even know about?” Sebastien’s voice had grown harder, sharper, and she realized she was leaning toward him, glaring into his eyes.

People were staring at her.

“You know so much, Sebastien,” a girl a few desks away said with a simpering smile that lacked any real thoughtfulness and made Sebastien want to smack the expression off her face.

Sebastien leaned back, looking away with a sharp exhale.

Ana eyed Sebastien. “You do know rather a lot about this.”

“It seemed rather prudent to do at least basic research about creatures that are created without warning and can wipe out an entire city.” Sebastien couldn’t understand why more people weren’t interested in learning everything they could about Aberrants.

At most, incidents would be reported in the paper, and there would be warnings about the danger of blood magic and unlicensed, improperly trained thaumaturges. She was sure someone was researching the beings extensively—how else would the Red Guard be equipped to deal with them?—but, as a normal person, a commoner, trying to get information about Aberrants or the mental break that created them was an exercise in frustration. Those in power probably didn’t want to cause a panic, while the average person just wanted to go about their life peacefully, moronically pretending that it had nothing to do with them, wouldn’t affect them. Even the University library kept most of that information on the third floor or in the underground restricted sections.

“It’s a real threat. A danger to the entire world. Aberrants don’t die of old age, and they keep being created,” she added in a calmer tone. ‘It only takes one to destroy everything you’ve ever known and cared for,’ she added silently.

“Maybe you should join the Red Guard,” Westbay said. “They might not be perfect, but they do protect Lenore pretty well. They need people who are powerful and passionate about protecting the country.”

Sebastien wasn’t sure how to respond to that, caught between surprise, amusement, and denial.

Ana turned away from Sebastien, putting on a bright smile. “All that as it is, the Red Guard has no doubt performed valiantly in this instance,” she announced. “Let us discuss something more pleasant? I’ve heard Professor Boldon was proposed to by one of his student aides.”

The others were drawn in by this semi-scandalous declaration, and Sebastien took the welcome reprieve to chastise herself for allowing her interest in the topic to override her discretion. She was easily caught up in theoretical discussions, sometimes without properly taking into account her audience and what was appropriate to reveal about her opinions.

Not long after, a student aide walked in and told them that the class had been assigned to self-study in the absence of their professor. The student aide sat behind Lacer’s desk at the front corner of the room and started scribbling on a paper while watching them, as if to record their adherence to the task.

Westbay quickly turned to Anastasia. “I’ll partner against you to start, and Siverling can watch and give us some pointers.”

Sebastien raised an eyebrow, but didn’t protest.

Ana hesitated, looking at Sebastien. “You don’t mind? We’ll be competing against each other in a few weeks, after all.”

Westbay shook his head condescendingly. “Siverling’s not so selfish that he can’t set aside practicing for a single period to help his friends. Right, Siverling?”

“…Right.”

The two of them set up the spell array and competed against each other for a few minutes while Sebastien watched. Then, they stopped and turned to her expectantly. “Well?” Westbay asked.

She stared back at them for a few seconds. ‘Where does this bright-eyed anticipation come from? Are a few tips from me so valuable? Well, I suppose I am better than either of them.’ She cleared her throat. “What do both of you visualize when you move the ball?”

Anastasia looked unsurely between Sebastien and Westbay. “Umm, I just imagine the ball…moving?”

“How? What causes it to move? It just moves on its own?” Sebastien asked.

“I imagine an invisible force behind it, pushing,” Westbay said.

Sebastien tapped her forefinger thoughtfully on the table . “Westbay, your visualization seems to be a little stronger than Ana’s. And you’ve both practiced this spell a lot, so there’s not a ton of inefficiency. But…Will isn’t just about how much energy you’re channeling, or even how efficiently you do it. At least that’s how it seems to me. When you know exactly what you want, as clear as high quality celerium, and you want it really, really badly, it makes a difference. Knowing exactly what you want can be tricky, but an easy way to create effects like this is to think about how you might create them without magic. You could nudge the ball around with your finger, and that would work, but you’ll never get real speed or efficiency out of that. Swinging it around like a rock in a shepherd’s sling would be better. If you can handle it mentally, a geared crank that sends the ball shooting around two times, or a hundred times, for every revolution of the crank… My point is, the visualization matters.”

Damien scribbled down a handful of notes on a spare piece of paper while she spoke. “I think I understand. Give me a moment to come up with a model.”

Sebastien turned to Ana. “You don’t care enough about the outcome. Don’t ask, don’t order, just…believe. There’s a reason it’s called the Will. You must become a god, a force of nature, and the ball moves because the laws of reality that you created say that it moves.”

Ana stared into her eyes for a long moment. “Is that how you do it?”

Sebastien chuckled. “All good thaumaturges have to be a little narcissistic, I think.”

“It sounds…appealing, that kind of control.”

“Of course. Magic is…it’s the fabric beneath reality. It’s in everything. When you touch magic…” Sebastien shook her head, feeling visceral electricity running through her skin at the thought, raising the fine hairs all over her body and setting her blood alight. “There is nothing more worthwhile.” Her hand had gripped her Conduit while she wasn’t paying attention, and she released it, sitting back and rolling her shoulders. “Okay. Try again.”

They did. The improvement wasn’t huge, especially with them already having so much experience casting the same spell over and over, but it was noticeable. Maybe a five percent increase in power, and about the same improvement to their efficiency. It was enough to put a huge grin on Westbay’s face and make Ana let out a rich laugh. They drew the attention of those sitting nearby.

“You really are a genius,” Westbay said. “This is as good as if I just gained ten thaums in five minutes of work.”

A girl whose name Sebastien had forgotten leaned in, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Are you handing out tips, Siverling? Teaching the class in place of Professor Lacer?”

“I don’t have anything to say that you shouldn’t already know,” Sebastien said shortly.

Despite the fact that she’d just coached him, Westbay crossed his arms over his chest and gave their curious classmates a glare. “Focus on your own tables,” he snapped at them.

And so, they spent the rest of the class period like that, with Ana and Westbay practicing while Sebastien watched and gave them little hints to improve their performance—and their classmates not-so-inconspicuously continued to eavesdrop.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Another plug for the Patreon exclusive from Thaddeus's POV, which is the length of about two normal chapters all by itself: https://www.patreon.com/posts/thaddeus-57698189

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-46-the-intersection-of-transmutation-and-transmogrification/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 46 - The Intersection of Transmutation and Transmogrification

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 9, Wednesday 2:15 p.m.

Professor Lacer was back in the Practical Casting classroom on Wednesday. For once, he was there ahead of the students. He leaned against his desk, which displayed a scattering of components.

‘A demonstration,’ Sebastien thought with excitement. Professor Lacer’s classes tended to be filled with a lot of practice, but he also often lectured on the kind of fascinating topics that were beyond the purview of their other classes. He introduced ideas and talked about spells that they couldn’t explore at their low level of skill, but which were still fascinating. Sometimes he made them do thought exercises that seemed designed to force them to think creatively and come up with non-standard solutions to problems.

But everyone enjoyed the days when he demonstrated free-casting the most.

As soon as they’d all settled, Professor Lacer pushed away from the edge of his desk. “Just as our understanding of magic has changed as we created the modern practice of sorcery, our labels have evolved. Ancient humans had no concept of a delineation between transmutation and transmogrification. It was all magic. Now, we say that transmutation is based on natural conversion of form or energy, and transmogrification is a borrowing of concepts. Of ideas. Intangible properties. Today, we are going to explore the intersection of transmutation and transmogrification.

“Transmogrification intersects with transmutation in three main ways. One, when both are used for separate aspects of a spell to create a synergistic effect. Two, when transmutation is not enough, and so we boost the effects by adding transmogrification toward the same purpose, adding a punch of efficacy to efficiency, as it were. Three, when the caster is using transmogrification not toward an intangible idea, but to copy a process, or, as happens more often, to copy part of a process in addition to the idea of the process that the caster does not understand.”

He crouched down and drew a Circle on the ground, about a meter across. “We will start with the simplest of intersections: spells that use both for a synergistic effect, transmutation for one facet and transmogrification for another.”

He turned to his desk, moving a block of heavy clay, three small white balls floating in a jar of yellow pickling brine, and another jar of water containing a frond of seaweed and some sand to the floor. From his pockets, he pulled out his Conduit with one hand and a beast core with the other. The block of clay rippled and morphed into the shape of a turtle, surprisingly detailed and lifelike. “A simple shape-change transmutation, using the provided clay and the energy from this beast core to mold it according to my Will. What comes next is, arguably, more interesting,” he said.

Within the briny jar, the three white balls disintegrated.

Color and texture seeped over the turtle, turning it from clay to flesh and shell.

It came to life with a sudden jerk, like someone awoken from a nightmare to find themselves in unfamiliar surroundings.

“Pickled turtle eggs for the animation, the concept of the life that would have been, borrowed and molded into a lifelike simulation. Transmogrification. Let me point out that I have no idea if those eggs were fertilized or not, or if there were stillborn turtles within. And in case any of you have not been paying attention when we talk about theory, let me also point out that I have not created life. I have created a lifelike golem that will last as long as my concentration does.”

A student raised her hand, and he nodded to her, indicating that she could speak.

In a slightly hushed tone that nevertheless was clearly audible in the classroom—the rest of the students held their breath, as if any disturbance would break the spell—she asked, “Is it possible to create life? I’ve heard there have been experiments, but the creatures always die as soon as they let the spell drop. Professor Boldon said creating true life was one of the inherent limitations of magic.”

“Of course it is possible,” Professor Lacer immediately dismissed. “If you believe anything is impossible, it is because you are too primitive to understand how it works, or too weak to make it happen. If a woman can create true life in her womb, a thaumaturge can create true life with magic. Eventually, someone will cross that seemingly impassable barrier, just like we have crossed so many before.”

The girl sat back, frowning but silent.

Sebastien remembered Professor Gnorrish’s class on the theory of spontaneous generation. ‘Is it that we don’t understand what makes something “alive,” and so we cannot create life? Or perhaps there is something—a soul?—that requires too much energy, or that we are not giving the proper Sacrifices to recreate. But if that were the case, we would be able to measure the soul escaping from the body upon death, correct? I don’t believe there is any evidence of that. Unless the “soul,” or whatever it is that we’re missing, doesn’t actually reside within the body.’ It was a fascinating idea, with interesting implications. Who wouldn’t want to escape death? If you could understand enough to create life through magic, surely that was a huge step toward staving off death. One might even be able to simply transfer themselves into a fresh body when they got too old. ‘Of course,’ she thought wryly, ‘Research into the topic would almost certainly be classified as blood magic, whether it deserved to be outlawed or not.’ Before she could lose herself to contemplation, Professor Lacer’s spell drew her attention back.

Seawater burst out of the final jar, dispersing in an artful splash around the spherical confines of the Circle, and then seeming to expand impossibly while simultaneously disappearing.

The turtle rose up, swimming around the air as if it were in a dome-shaped aquarium. “And here,” Professor Lacer continued, “I have taken that concept of buoyancy that a creature might experience surrounded by seawater and applied it to the area under my control. I have slowed down the steps of this spell so that you can see the delineation between transmutation and transmogrification, but in many other spells both effects are simultaneous. We go as far as we can with transmutation, and bridge the gap with transmogrification.”

‘It’s true. Spells do that all the time. And it makes sense, if there isn’t any actual difference between the two. The two T’s are just labels we’ve used to explain what we’ve always been doing. A divider that’s only in our minds.’ It was an interesting way to look at things, as if she had tilted her head to the side and saw that the shape she’d thought was a square was actually a diamond, but it wasn’t some world-shattering revelation. Things like this were why she loved this class, as tedious as the magical exercises could sometimes be.

Professor Lacer dropped the spell without further fanfare.

The turtle fell to the floor, lifeless and a little damp.

He picked it up and tossed it into a box beside his desk without care, then grabbed a glass bottle of amber liquid. “For the second most common intersection of the two, take this whiskey spelled to impart a sense of warmth and wellbeing by the shot. Alcohol does this naturally, and the fermentation and distillation are a form of transmutation, whether processed magically or not. The addition of transmogrification magic uses that same alcohol and a couple of other ingredients to boost the effects beyond simple inebriation.”

“Do we get a practical demonstration of that, too?” a student called out. “I could do with a shot of warmth and wellbeing.”

This caused scattered laughter, and even Professor Lacer allowed a small quirk to his lips. “Even if University rules allowed it, I would not be so reckless as to give students anything that would combine lowered inhibitions and a sense of wellbeing. You already mistake yourselves to be invincible.”

He picked up a metal box, touching the controls to turn the walls of the artifact transparent. Within lay a shimmering, tapered slab of something that looked like dark oil.

‘That’s the same kind of evidence box the coppers use to keep things in stasis.’

“Finally, transmutation intersects with transmogrification without us realizing it. The spell cast using this fish is one interesting example.” He opened the top, placed the box down, and then cast a levitation spell on the specimen using only his Conduit and the beast core for power. Even the Circle was maintained within his mind, and cast at a distance, just as he’d spoken of on their first day of class.

Sebastien grinned just to see it.

The fish floated between Professor Lacer and the students, turning slowly so they could see its flat, slablike form. “The dorienne fish survives and hunts using particularly impressive camouflage,” he introduced. “It can see through its skin, and it processes the input from one side of its body and mimics it on the other with precise control of its pigmentation. The dorienne is only able to do this from one side at a time, and will turn to keep one broad side facing a predator or its prey, so that it remains effectively invisible.”

He floated the dead, preserved fish into the Circle he’d drawn on the floor earlier, then placed a foot-wide mirror with a frame of ornate scrollwork across from it. “Although we are aware of how the dorienne fish works, those who first discovered it knew only that the fish could be invisible from one side at a time. They created a spell that seems to copy that process.” He pointed, and the mirror became invisible, frame and all.

With a deep breath and a scowl of concentration, he moved slowly to face the students again. Now floating in front of him, the partially invisible mirror rotated to its visible side, and then around again. “The spell does not actually copy the process of the fish. Can anyone tell me how they are different?”

Sebastien leaned forward in her seat, her eyes devouring every movement as the mirror continued to spin at different angles around its axis. “It’s actually invisible.”

Professor Lacer turned to her. “Explain.”

“With the way the fish works, light hits both sides. It’s only changed what one of its sides looks like to mimic the effect of light passing straight through. The spell you’re casting has made one side of the mirror invisible. When the invisible side is facing the light source, it casts no shadow. Light is passing right through it.”

With a very slight smile, he floated the mirror over to the lamp on his desk to show the effect more clearly. “Mr. Siverling is correct. The dorienne invisibility spell is more power-intensive than it should be if the process were truly being copied. It killed its creator on his initial test casting. Transmogrification is unclearly defined. The trade for your Sacrifice is not always an intangible property. Sometimes, rather, it is a tangible process that you could create with transmutation, with enough study. Sometimes, transmogrification molds connotative associations, which are intangible and often beyond our powers of transmutation. But other times, transmogrification simply copies a state or process from the Sacrifice, whole-cloth. And occasionally it does one while the ignorant researcher who does not understand the limitations of their subject believes it to be doing another.

“This spell was created to copy the process of the dorienne, a much less power-intensive shortcut than the true invisibility spells of the time. And yet, in their lack of understanding, the creator of this spell did not copy, but drew on their idea of the dorienne’s invisibility, never having noticed that the dorienne casts a shadow or understanding what this means.”

He placed the fish back in the stasis artifact and then snapped his fingers.

Boxes appeared at the back of the classroom as if they’d been there all along—and they probably had been. “We will be moving on to another exercise today. You have had five weeks to practice moving a ball in a circle, and while you should continue to practice so that you do not grow rusty before the mid-term tournament, it is time to stretch your Will in other ways. Come up and grab a set of components. They are rated by thaum capacity.”

Once all the students had filed down, retrieved the appropriate components, and returned to their desks, he continued. “You each have two bottles of dirt and a small dragon scale. Your dirt varies both in volume and the ratio of clay to sand. Those of you with a larger amount or sandier material will find this exercise more difficult. Your goal is to turn particulate earth into a solid sphere capable of withstanding pressure, and then back again. You will use both transmutation and transmogrification to achieve this. The dragon scale is to be used as a template of form as well as for the idea of its strength. In a month, you should be able to create a sturdy ball of earth from any combination of methods. From pure transmutation using pressure or heat or whatever natural process you can come up with, to accurately copying the internal structure of the dragon’s scale, to imbuing your ball of earth with the defensive power of a dragon.”

Professor Lacer had his own set of components on his desk, along with a steel mallet. He poured out a jar of pure sand. Under his hand, it glowed brightly with heat, flowing and melting into a sphere of opaque glass. “Transmutation,” he said.

He slammed the mallet down onto it, shattering the glass sphere into powder and shards. “Fairly weak.” The pieces drew back together before melting again into a ball. “Do not forget you must not only create the compressed sphere, but also return your component to its original state.” The reformed ball crumbled into sand under his Will.

He picked up the dragon scale and laid it next to the pile of sand. The sand once again glowed and drew together into a sphere, but its surface was matte this time, and Sebastien thought she could make out the same patterning as the dragon scale sitting on the desk beside it.

“The simplest form of transmogrification,” he said. “Copying. The internal structure of a dragon’s scale is no more an intangible quality than its color is. Both are knowable, explainable by the natural sciences. And yet, spells like this have been labeled and cast as transmogrification by those who don’t understand how these things come to be. I will move the sphere to the floor this time. I do not wish to damage my desk.”

He brought down the iron mallet even harder than before. The sound of the impact was like the muffled crack of a frozen tree branch fracturing in the cold of winter under the weight of too much snow. The sphere was scuffed where the mallet had struck, but remained whole. He repeated this several more times to the same effect. Turning to one of the other students near the front, a strong-looking young man, Lacer called him up to take the mallet.

While the young man kept bashing away at the sphere, Lacer stood and continued lecturing, his words punctuated by the cracking sound of the mallet against the ball. “If I were to take the time to understand how the scale of the dragon is created, what the cells are made of and how their structure provides such defensive qualities, I could mold the sand without the need for a template to copy. The advantage of this method, as well as transmutation, is that as long as the transformation is complete by the time the casting stops, the changes will remain. I have created permanent change from a temporary application of magical power.”

Finally, after a few dozen more whacks from the enthusiastic student, the sphere broke, falling to jagged shards like a piece of hard candy.

Professor Lacer had him stand by while he returned the pieces to sand once again, this time using the second jar as a component. “What you can copy in one direction you can copy in the other. Rather than disintegrating this through transmutation, I am copying the state of the sand.”

The sphere’s recreation took slightly longer the third time, and Sebastien imagined she felt the weight of Professor Lacer’s Will brushing against the air.

When he finally held it up to them, it looked like the first time, shiny and semi-transparent. “This ball is a simple-structured glass imbued with the concept of a dragon’s defense. True transmogrification, completely conceptual without any accompanying physical change. It is an actively cast spell, not an enchanted artifact, so the magic won’t hold long, but while it does…”

He tossed the sphere to the man holding the mallet, who caught it clumsily, then placed it on the floor and whacked.

The sound was different, not such a clear crack, but deeper and hollower, as if the force of the blow had reverberated through something bigger than the sphere. The man repeated this dozens of times, but the sphere remained completely unharmed, pristine and unscuffed even after he began to pant and sweat.

Finally, Professor Lacer stopped him, once again turning the sphere back into sand, then levitating that sand back into its bottle. “Your turn,” he said to the class. “Homework will be theoretical research: the glyphs and spell arrays you could use to make these effects happen. Three glyphs, maximum. Be creative, be exhaustive. Due next Wednesday.”

Sebastien’s jars weren’t quite filled with pure sand, as the ones Professor Lacer used for his demonstration had been, but they were far from the clay dust she saw some of the other students working with, and there was enough to create a ball almost an inch in diameter. It would require both more power and more skill. With only middling success, she attempted to transmute the sandy dirt into a rock. By the end of the class period, she was frustrated with her dinky little Conduit. It kept her from crushing or heating the material with enough strength to create anything more than a lumpy ball with the consistency of sandstone.

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Chapter 47 - Useless Clutter

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Sebastien

Month 12, Day 9, Wednesday 3:45 p.m.

As Sebastien left the Practical Casting classroom, Anastasia and Westbay fell into step on either side of her.

“That was amazing!” Westbay crowed, his grey eyes bright and glinting. “I can’t believe Professor Lacer isn’t an Archmage already. Did you see that turtle? He turned clay into flesh.”

“Most impressive,” Ana agreed. “Do you think he was making some sort of allusion to the task given to Myrddin by the dragon?”

“What?”

“Well, as you said, he’s not an Archmage yet. That classroom holds several members related to the council of Grandmasters that he would need to confirm him. Perhaps he hopes to subtly influence the council’s decision by pairing himself to Myrddin in the eyes of their beloved family members. At some point, they won’t be able to deny him without being seen as petty and foolish to the masses.��

“Well…I suppose that’s possible,” Westbay said doubtfully. “But do you think he even cares about the title?”

“Who knows? Titles can hold power. Freedom,” Ana said, her fingers absently stroking the spine of the ornate pink journal she carried with her everywhere and wrote in every evening.

“What I want to know is whether that turtle was edible,” Westbay said, turning to Sebastien. “If I were trapped in a dungeon cell, with only the stones in the wall around me and some turtle eggs, could I create an edible creature? Not a living one, but flesh that would provide calories and nutrition?”

Sebastien raised her eyebrows as they stepped into the Great Hall. “I doubt you could. Or any of us. Rather than flesh, stone to a simple sugar might be possible, and could keep you alive, if not healthy. Besides, if you’re trapped in a dungeon cell and somehow have enough power to transmogrify stone into an edible, dead turtle, I think there are better uses for your efforts. Like escaping.”

Westbay blinked a couple times before launching into a response, but Sebastien’s attention was drawn to the far side of the Great Hall, where Newton was stepping down from the stage where the contribution point prizes were displayed. The older young man looked tired, but not much worse than he had a couple of days before. ‘Is he looking for something to help his father? Or maybe something he could sell for gold?’

The thought was a reminder of her own situation. Everything in this city cost too much, and she was running low on coins. After what she set aside to repay Oliver for Healer Nidson’s fee, she was once again poor. Aside from the emergency gold hidden in the lining of her jacket and boots, she had a little less than eight gold crowns to her name. At one point, she would have considered that a fortune. Now, she knew how little it could actually get her.

She had a few contribution points by now, earned by performing well in her classes and on tests. ‘Perhaps there will be something I could afford.’ “I’m going to look at the prizes,” she announced, interrupting whatever Westbay was saying and striding away immediately.

Westbay grumbled, “Were you even listening?” as he hurried to catch up.

“No, not at all,” Sebastien admitted. It was the truth, but just because she hadn’t been actively listening didn’t mean she didn’t hear. “You said that in this hypothetical situation, maybe the dungeon cell had some sort of protective warding that didn’t allow you to break out, and no one was coming to feed you because they were afraid you would attack them, so they were hoping to kill you through simple starvation, and wouldn’t they be surprised when they came to check on you a month later and the cell was filled with turtle corpses, and you’d made turtle-shell armor and weapons and were ready and waiting?”

“Um.”

She shook her head with exasperation. “Honestly, Westbay. You’re like a child.”

“I thought you said you weren’t listening?”

“I wasn’t.”

Ana let out a long, low laugh. “Oh, Damien. You do have the most amusing outraged expression!”

Westbay had fallen behind in his confusion, and he ran a few steps to catch up with Sebastien as she climbed onto the stage. “You weren’t listening, but you retained the information anyway? But what about when we first met? You forgot my name. In fact, you heard it several times, but still didn’t remember it.”

Most of the prizes were in display cases or otherwise warded against theft. Sebastien skimmed the summary cards beneath a row of wands as she spoke. “It’s like my mind is a vast ocean. It can hold quite a lot, but all the useless information kind of settles to the bottom. Very hard to find anything down there in the dark, piled up with all the other clutter.”

“Useless information?” Westbay’s voice had grown decidedly shrill.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t be so dramatic. I remember your name now, don’t I?”

He started muttering something about, “the most narcissistic, pig-headed, rude man…think you’re the second coming of Myrddin…oh no, don’t bother remembering useless information like my name,” but she tuned him out again, browsing further.

She knew he wasn’t actually upset, after all. His eyes were still light grey and he hadn’t started fidgeting with his hair or clothes. ‘If I irritate him enough, I wonder if I could get him to use that favor I owe him just to dull the razor of my tongue.’

Unfortunately, she was the one who was irritated by the way he’d suddenly started hanging around her. She didn’t trust his sudden turn toward amiability. But he was determined it seemed, and undeterred by her snark.

Ana, silently aware of Sebastien’s frustration, gave her a crooked smile when Westbay wasn’t looking.

Atop the stage were potion ingredients, spellcasting components of varying rarity, and even things like the powder of gemstones and precious metals that could be used as components or to draw a more conductive spell array. The professors, or perhaps higher-level student aides, had probably transmuted them from something much less expensive. Of course, none of the items on offer were legally restricted, but a few were probably hard to come by in the city market, regardless of coin on hand.

Then, magical items created by the professors. A multitude of artifacts, enchanted clothing, and strange alchemical concoctions. The artifacts ranged from the useful—a better lock for the storage chests in the dorms—to fanciful and strange—a pillow that sang lullabies out of its felt mouth.

There were even a couple of small Conduits displayed in one of the glass cases. Sebastien eyed them with interest, but they were far beyond what she could afford, even the smallest costing over twelve hundred contribution points.

Ana seemed particularly interested in the enchanted clothing, eyeing the glyphs embroidered into the cloth with a magnifying glass that she pulled out of a pocket. “That’s a very elegant solution. I’ll have to write father about it,” she muttered.

Westbay focused on the divination supplies, staring at an artistic deck of cards and a rune-inscribed basin for far-viewing. “This is what Aberford Thorndyke used to catch the hen-thief terrorizing that rural village!” he exclaimed, grinning at her, his earlier ire forgotten. Westbay was taking seven classes this term, the last of which was Divination.

Sebastien grimaced at the reminder of her own struggles with that field of magic. If only she could foist the work off onto someone like him. She sighed at the thought. ‘Even if I could find someone to do it, I couldn’t afford to hire them.’

A big book on a pedestal listed the other things she could buy, going into detail about what exactly she would be purchasing. In addition to purchasing better cafeteria food, there was also access to various upper sections of the library, private tutoring with University student aides of different levels and areas of expertise, and a list of the available—increasingly luxurious—dorm rooms. If she could afford it, she could live in a penthouse suite with a built-in kitchen and bathroom, all in pale marble and dark granite, and eat purple lobster three times a week.

If she had five hundred points, she could exchange them for tuition on a single University class. A quick calculation told Sebastien that if that exchange rate held steady, each point was worth about one silver crown, which was actually a significant amount.

Sebastien could afford some of the less interesting components and alchemy products, but nothing she particularly needed, and nothing she could resell for a good sum.

But the possibility had reminded her that she did have some things she didn’t need.



Instead of accompanying Anastasia and Westbay to the library, she dropped off her new practice components from Practical Casting in her dorm cubicle and left for Oliver’s house.

He wasn’t home, but the servants greeted her happily, and Sharon forced her to sit down and have an afternoon snack that was really more like a full dinner, grinning and blushing behind her hands every time Sebastien showed appreciation for the non-University food.

When Sebastien was stuffed so full it was almost painful to walk, she went to the room Oliver was lending her and took the bags she’d brought with her that first night out of one of the closets.

Ennis’s things. The bags she’d retrieved for him from that room at the inn, when she still thought he was a real father to her.

She took out one set of clothes. They were a little too short and wide for Sebastien, but she could make some adjustments so that they would fit her better. She was not very handy with a needle and thread, but that was alright. It made sense to keep a simple set of male clothes with her, ones not as attention-drawing as the items in Sebastien Siverling’s wardrobe. Perhaps someday she would need to present herself as a more mundane blonde man.

With Ennis’s luggage slung across her shoulders, she started walking. She kept an eye out for anyone watching or following her, but saw no eyes that were anything more than curious. Sebastien dressed like Oliver—like she could feed a family of four for a month with the price of her perfectly tailored suit made of silky, thick wool and the stylish jacket over it. She looked like she was actually warm. ‘And I’m hauling three bags stuffed with the worldly possessions of a nomadic conman,’ she thought. ‘They’re probably wondering where my manservant is.’

Her shoulders hurt by the time she reached the Verdant Stag, but she didn’t want to waste coin on anything unnecessary, like the luxury of a carriage.

She’d only been to the inn-slash-entertainment-hall a few times as Sebastien. There were a couple of musicians on stage, and people were filtering in as the sun set and they got off work, filling up the seats and ordering food and ale from the bar. People were betting with a bookie in front of the large chalkboard against the other wall. She recognized one of the Stag enforcers leaning up against the wall near a hallway.

Sebastien walked past all of them.

Theo was at the top of the curved staircase at the far side of the room, sitting with a book and what looked like a half-written essay. The boy leaned his copper-haired head back until it thunked against the wall behind him, his eyes closed and his mouth yawning open in a soulless gape of boredom.

A laugh barked out of Sebastien’s throat without warning, and Theo jerked to awareness.

“Sorceress!” he yipped. His eyes widened and he looked around, covering his mouth with his hand, but there was too much other noise in the room below for anyone to have heard him. He took his hands away, examining her curiously. “You don’t look homeless anymore.”

She grinned at him. “Having trouble with your homework?”

“Ugh!” He rolled his head back dramatically again. “It’s an assignment from Mr. Mawson, my tutor. I’m supposed to write an essay on the Black Wastes, but it’s so boring. I don’t even know what to talk about. They’re black. The Brillig caused them thousands of years ago when we were at war with them, when they knew we were gonna win and they didn’t want us to have anything good if they couldn’t. And stuff dies there. How’m I supposed to say any more than that? I’ve never even been there. I’ve never been more than a day’s walk away from Gilbratha.”

Sebastien shook her head. “Whoa. Well, if you think the Black Wastes are boring, I must say it sounds like your tutor may be a teeny bit incompetent. He left out all the interesting parts and wanted you to write an essay copied from a book?”

Theo’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What do you mean, interesting parts?”

“Well, like the stories of the adventurers who explored the Black Wastes to try and uncover the dragon corpses. The few who made it out alive told crazy—and I do mean insane—stories about the things they saw.”

“Dragon corpses? What kind of things did they see?”

“Well, how long is your essay supposed to be?”

“Two pages.”

She waved her hand carelessly. “That’s nothing. Take notes. I will give you the information for the source material you can say you referenced if your tutor gives you problems, too.” She settled next to him on the top step of the stairs, speaking slowly. “This comes out of Edward Leeson’s third volume of ‘History of the Indomitable Race,’ which is actually kind of an ironic title, because…”

She told stories, repeating particularly interesting sections, answering questions, and helping him spell certain names while Theo scribbled as fast as he could to keep up with the information. Almost an hour later, he had three pages of notes and a cramping hand. “Okay. I think that’s enough material,” she said finally.

He sighed with relief as he stretched out his fingers, but still pouted reluctantly. “What about the other knight who went in with Briarson?”

She stood and began to walk down the hall to Katerin’s office, and Theo gathered up his things and scrambled to walk with her. “Briarson said that his partner went to check the perimeter around their camp, but didn’t come back until dawn, and when he did, he was glowing and shooting off sparks of green light, ‘like a dandelion in the wind.’” She used her fingers to indicate the quotation, then knocked on the door to Katerin’s office. “So Briarson shot him with an arrow. Well, six arrows. Briarson said his partner kept getting up again, so he had to keep shooting. No one knows if that really happened or if Briarson had gone insane by then.”

When Katerin called for them to come in, Theo bounced into the room. “What happened then? Did Briarson get out?”

Sebastien shook her head. “No, he never did. We know all this because a later expedition found his journal. It had been enchanted to ward off the elements. That expedition confirmed Briarson’s body was right there in camp, dead of unknown causes. And they found the arrows he’d shot on the other side of camp, broken and rotting. But they didn’t find the body of his companion.”

Theo’s eyes were round. “Could he have…got up again? Like Briarson said?”

Katerin raised her eyebrows.

Sebastien shrugged, suppressing her smile. “No one knows. Maybe he was a hallucination. Or maybe he was real, but he wasn’t Briarson’s friend at all. Maybe Briarson’s friend never came back from checking the perimeter.”

Theo shuddered in delighted horror. “Titan’s balls, I can’t wait to rub this in Mr. Mawson’s face. He never said anything about any of this stuff. Not the good stuff, I mean, just the death tolls and the loss of farmland and the boring recovery efforts.”

“Language, Theo,” Katerin reprimanded lazily, her accent throaty and biting. “And maybe he never said anything about that because he didn’t think it was appropriate to regale a young boy with horror stories.”

Sebastien winced.

“They’re not horror stories! They’re real! The sorcer—I mean, he”—Theo jerked his head to Sebastien as he bounced over to Katerin’s side—“gave me all sorts of sources. This all comes out of real books that he read. It’s for my essay on the Black Wastes, which are actually super cool and not boring at all.” He waved the scribbled sheets of note paper at her.

Katerin sighed, but ruffled his hair with a smile. “Okay. Real horror stories, then. Make sure you thank Sebastien here. And that essay better be good enough that I can rub it in Mr. Mawson’s face, too, when he comes complaining to me.” She winked at him. “Now go to your room and finish your homework.”

Grinning wide and gleefully as only a child could, he ran out. “Thanks, Mr. Sebastien!” he called over his shoulder.

“Err, I’m sorry if—” Sebastien started, but Katerin cut her off with a wave of her hand.

“No, no, it’s fine. Great, actually.” She stood, walking to the window and shutting the curtains against the night. “Oliver suggested a reward system to get Theo more focused on his learning, and it’s been working to some degree, but Theo’s only been dragging himself through it for the end prize. I overheard him giving himself a pep talk in the bathroom yesterday.” The woman chuckled fondly. “It’s nice to see him actually excited about learning for once.”

Katerin’s crimson hair and white teeth, especially after night had fallen, still made Sebastien think of a vampire. Or maybe it was something about the way the muscles around her eyes and mouth were tight with what was probably tension and fatigue, but looked a little like hunger, too. Her eyes roved over the leather and canvas luggage bags Sebastien had let drop to the floor. “What have you brought me?”

“The belongings of one Ennis Naught,” Sebastien replied softly. “I was hoping to get your advice on the best way to sell them.”

Katerin raised an eyebrow, but replied smoothly. “Nothing that would lead back to him, and through him to you, I hope?”

“Of course not. Good clothes, a warm, waterproof jacket, and fancy knickknacks he collected to make himself seem cultured or richer than he actually was.” Ennis had accumulated a lot for someone with such a nomadic lifestyle. Sebastien had taken only the bags that were light enough to carry, which meant she mostly had his clothes, and the rest had been left at the inn for the coppers. “It should be worth at least a few gold, even used.”

“There’s a shop about half a kilometer north of here. They’ll pay for things like that, mostly from people who’ve died or commoners who are upper-class enough to wear only new clothes but aren’t wasteful enough to throw away their worn purchases from last year. Tell them I sent you, and don’t accept the first number they offer.” Katerin scribbled their name and location on a scrap of paper and handed it to Sebastien.

“Thank you,” Sebastien said. She turned to the door, then hesitated. “Are there any updates?”

Katerin eyed her thoughtfully, then took out a pipe from the drawer in her desk and began to fill it with a dark blue crumble that Sebastien recognized as dried etherwood leaves. The smoke was smooth and calming, and great for blowing smoke rings, but nonaddictive. Either it was laced with something else, or Katerin’s smoking habit was purely recreational. “He’s still in jail. They brought in a curse-breaker and a shaman to see him, with no luck. He’s still telling the same story.”

Sebastien frowned. “You mean…the truth?” ‘A shaman might help him to clarify his dreams or memories to give better testimony, but why a curse-breaker?’

Katerin placed the pipe onto a round glass coaster with a spell array molded into its surface. She paused to concentrate, frowning until a spark burst to life in the bowl of the pipe, orange smoldering in the depths the dried leaves. “Well, yes. But I’m not sure they believe the truth, with the sudden notoriety of the Raven Queen. Our contact says most of them think he’s just a pawn in the Raven Queen’s scheme and doesn’t know anything useful. But the coppers are unwilling to give up on Ennis just yet. They hope he might lead them to her involuntarily.” She looked up, sucking on the mouth of the pipe and then tilting her head back to release a thick ring of light blue smoke. “She’s contacted him twice already, after all.”

“Ah.” Sebastien ran her tongue across the back of her teeth. “But they’re not torturing him, or threatening execution?”

“You sure you want to get rid of those bags?” Katerin’s gaze was piercing, but her expression showed no actual curiosity.

“Yes.” Sebastien gripped the straps of the packs tighter.

“It’s just that someone who really does not care wouldn’t be asking me these things, right?”

Sebastien shifted, her shoulders tightening. “Well, if I find myself slipping into feelings of worry or guilt, I need only to remember that, if Ennis Naught somehow gets out of jail, he only has himself to blame for giving my birthright heirloom ring—with a Master level Conduit—to the Gervin Family, which would have been worth more than enough to buy him new clothes and support him. Even after his ungrateful daughter sold all his things.” Her voice petered out on a low snarl.

Katerin just stared back silently.

Sebastien straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and left for the address of the shop Katerin had given her.

She made five gold off the lot.

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Chapter 48 - Unresolved Curiosity

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 14, Monday 9:00 a.m.

After getting rid of Ennis’s belongings, Sebastien spent the night studying, allowing her magic-casting faculties to rest, except for a single use of the divination ward against a scrying attempt. The coppers seemed to be trying at random times, hoping to catch her off guard, but with the way the ward worked, it would start to veil her even without her conscious aid, and the stabbing feel of it in the skin of her back when it activated was impossible to ignore or sleep through.

After a couple days of research, she determined that a map-based location divination was her best option. Her blood was almost certainly at the coppers’ base, and Oliver was doubtful of their ability to access it. But that simply wasn’t acceptable. There had to be a way to actually solve the problem, and pinpointing the location of her blood was the first step in doing so.

The spell she eventually settled on was meant to precisely determine the location of the separated piece of her blood on a map. With multiple castings, she could use more detailed, close-up maps to determine its location with increasing precision. Once she knew exactly where it was, she could destroy it.

‘Maybe I could have a Lino-Wharton raven messenger fly in an explosive potion, or force my blood to escape from its confines with a telekinetic spell, or even get Liza’s help with a switching spell or something. It is impossible for them to ward against everything.’

It also helped that the map-locating spell didn’t require any overly expensive components, except for the tiny vial of mercury and an eagle’s eye.

That weekend, Sebastien bought alchemy ingredients at Waterside Market again—which Oliver reimbursed her for—along with the ingredients for the scrying spell—which she had to cover herself. She then spent almost the entire weekend brewing for the Stags to try and pay off at least some of the interest on her debt. She focused on the more intensive potions that Oliver’s enforcers would need, like the philtre of darkness and revivifying potion, as well as the blood-clotting potion, which she could produce a lot more of in a single batch. Every enforcer should be supplied with at least two.

Despite her inability to channel large amounts of energy through her new Conduit, she could still complete potions in smaller batches. These were worth more than many of the more common-use potions sold in the Verdant Stag’s little alchemy shop, and she made a single extra dose in a couple of her batches for herself, so she still came out ahead.

It was likely that getting her blood from the coppers would take a combination of money and power, neither of which she had at the moment. Retrieving her blood, like figuring out a solution to her sleep problem, would likely be a long-term project.

A week after the rogue magic sirens had gone off, the coppers released a statement about their cause. It had indeed been an Aberrant.

Apparently, a prostitute had been attempting to cast an illegal, dangerous allure spell and had corrupted her Will. She’d broken under the strain and become a rabid creature of evil. The Red Guard had dealt with the Aberrant easily enough, and there were no lingering effects or danger.

Everyone was talking about it that Monday in Intro to Modern Magics. There was plenty of gossip and speculation, but no real details. Being as pleasant as possible, Sebastien even asked Damien Westbay, “Is that the full story? Have you heard any more details?”

He brightened perceptibly under her interested gaze. “My brother wrote to me that the spell she was trying to cast was new magic, something she cobbled together trying to do more than one thing at once. She was apparently disfigured, so she turned to magic out of desperation to attract customers,” he said.

“What were the abilities of the Aberrant?” she asked. “Some kind of allure effect, I’m assuming.” Usually, Aberrants had some relation to what the thaumaturge had been casting when they broke.

Westbay shook his head regretfully. “I don’t know. He didn’t go into detail. I could write him and ask, if you want?”

Sebastien hesitated, considering it, but shook her head. The last thing she wanted was for the leader of the coppers to know her name, or anything else about her. “No, that’s alright. Thank you, though,” she murmured, her thoughts turning inward.

Westbay beamed as if he’d won some sort of award.

Professor Lacer might know something, too, if the rumors about his past association with the Red Guard were true, but she was afraid to ask him for gossip.

Professor Burberry reeled back in the students’ attention to introduce their project for the week, a color-changing spell. It was labeled a transmogrification spell, and they were all given half a dozen different items in bright colors to use as components, plus a little vial of yak urine, which was apparently known for its ability to help dyes stay color-fast. They would be casting the spell on a white mouse with the intent to overcome its natural resistance and change the color of its fur.

The rest of Westbay’s group of Crown Family friends had been interacting with Sebastien more frequently, likely spurred on by his own sudden amicability toward her. They sat around her, Ana on one side and Rhett Moncrieffe on the other, with the rest of the group scattered close by. After a single silent nod to Sebastien, Moncrieffe turned to the pretty girl on his other side, who blushed under the weight of his attention. Sebastien was relieved he wasn’t as pushy as Westbay.

As Burberry lectured on the details of the color-change spell, Waverly Ascott tried to read a book on summoning under the table while Brinn Setterlund gently covered for her and alerted her whenever she needed to pretend to be paying attention to the professor.

When the time came to cast the spell, Ascott succeeded without much trouble despite her lack of attention, then returned to her surreptitious reading, her straight black hair shifting forward to hide her face.

Ana caught the direction of Sebastien’s gaze and leaned a little closer to murmur, “She dislikes Burberry because Burberry is prejudiced against witches.”

Now that Ana mentioned it, Sebastien realized that there had been hints of that in Burberry’s lectures. Sorcerers reigned supreme in their professor’s mind. “But…Waverly is a sorcerer?” Sebastien murmured, turning her eyes back to the caged mouse in front of her whose hair they were supposed to be turning different colors.

“For now, yes. The Ascott Family doesn’t approve of her interests, but she’s preparing to make a contract with a powerful Elemental. She’ll have succeeded by the time we finish with the University, if not sooner.”

Sebastien was intrigued, and could admit she respected that kind of passion, even if she herself preferred the personal control of sorcery. Instead of a celerium Conduit, witches channeled magic through their bound familiars, which could be tamed magical beasts, creatures, or even sapient beings conjured from one of the Elemental Planes. There was less chance for a witch to lose control or go insane from Will-strain, as their familiar took on some of the burden of casting, and the witch would always find casting spells that were within the natural purview of her familiar’s magic easier. However, spells that were antithetical to the familiar’s natural abilities would be more difficult.

Witches gave up versatility for focused power and safety. And for some witches, maybe for companionship.

Sebastien returned her focus to her own spellcasting, but was distracted again as Alec Gervin snapped at the student aide leaning over his shoulder.

“I did exactly what you said! You’re bungling the explanation. It’s useless, I can’t work with you. Send over the other guy,” he said, jerking his head at the other student aide with a glower.

The student aide seemed taken aback, but Gervin was resolute and got his way.

To Sebastien’s surprise, Westbay waved the reprimanded student aide over and made a murmured apology for his friend.

Sebastien grunted in disgust. “Surprising, that you and he share the same last name,” she murmured to Ana.

Ana smiled demurely, her eyes remaining on her own mouse, which was cowering in the corner of its little cage. “Alec was never taught finesse. He’s failing several classes, and he’s afraid of what’s going to happen when the Family finds out. His father, my uncle, is a horrid man. I’ve no particular love for Alec, but it’s best to think of him like an abused dog. He lashes out at strangers because his master lashes out at him.” Her smile grew crooked, a little wicked. “In fact, he’s like a dog in many ways.”

‘That’s no excuse,’ Sebastien thought, but she was smirking too.

But as they were filtering out of the class, Sebastien brushed against Gervin, who was still glowering with those bushy black eyebrows. “Our student aide, Newton Moore, does paid tutoring,” she murmured to Gervin. “He taught me a spell, and I found his explanation to be very clear. Perhaps you’d prefer working with him?” Alec Gervin could afford it, and from what she’d learned, Newton could use the coin.

Gervin scowled at her suspiciously, but she was already pushing past him.

On Tuesday, after Sympathetic Science, Sebastien stayed to talk to Professor Pecanty while the other students left.

“How can I help you, young man?” he asked in that lilting cadence that made everything he said sound like poetry.

“I’ve got a couple of questions about transmogrification.” Pecanty nodded, so she jumped right in. “Does it actually matter the conditions when components are gathered? What’s the difference between morning dew gathered before the sun rises or afterward? Or from morning dew and a bit of steam from a boiling cauldron?”

Pecanty’s genial smile fell away, and he seemed to puff up a bit. “I think you’re a little too young to be questioning the achievements in understanding of all those that have come before you. Surely you can see that the intrinsic properties of morning dew are very different than steam off your cauldron? This is Sympathetic Science, Mr. Siverling. If you still wish to question the expertise of myself and the people who have filled our library with books on the subject, please wait to do so until you are at least a Master of Sorcery.”

Sebastien’s shoulders tightened, and her chin rose involuntarily, even though she knew it wasn’t a good idea to challenge a professor who was so obviously unimpressed with her. “Well, what about the different types of transmogrification? Professor Lacer mentioned it. Some of it’s copying a template, and some of it uses ideas that are so vague as to be ungraspable. Are the delineations between different types of transmogrification officially recognized? I’ve never heard anyone talking about that.”

“Transmogrification is all the same. If you do not understand, it is because your foundation is patchy and weak. Understanding builds upon previous learning and enough practice that the feel becomes instinctual. If you are too impatient to put in the long-term effort without succumbing to your need to force the world into your little boxes of classification and order, you will never progress past petty questions that have no answers. Go now, young man, and try to see the beauty in the book of poems I assigned, rather than analyzing every word for its technical definition. Believe me, this type of questioning will not serve you well in my class, or in this craft.” He waved his hand at her and turned away dismissively.

Sebastien’s heart was beating loud in her ears, and she felt her cheeks tingle with blood. Clenching her jaw hard to keep herself from speaking, she strode out of the classroom and up to the second floor, where she’d recently found an out-of-the-way classroom that had at one point been used as a supply room for the elective art classes. There was an old slate lap table with a carved Circle that had once been an artifact whose magic kept the rain and elements off the writing surface. Now, it was empty of energy and entirely mundane—which was probably why it had been abandoned. It was the perfect aid to help her practice her fabric-slicing spell on one of the walls. She left behind light gouges in the white stone until her anger had dimmed and cooled to embers rather than a fire devouring her rationality.

Panting, she put away the small folding table and set up a spell to practice sympathetic divination. ‘Time to find my blood.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

More than one person has mentioned that they have a hard time keeping track of everything that's happened in the story so far, as well as all the little bits of worldbuilding. (Especially as the pacing is slow, and this story only advances 1 chapter a week.) I also have that problem, and I keep a huge Lore document to help me with that.

I've cleaned up the Glossary of Terms for everything through Book 1, A Conjuring of Ravens, and it's now on my website. If there's something you need a refresher on, there's a good chance it's mentioned there. A character list is coming whenever I get a chance.

Glossary of Terms: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-glossary/

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-49-reverse-scrying/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 49 - Reverse Scrying

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 15, Tuesday 12:30 p.m.

Sebastien didn’t worry about someone walking in on her. There had been enough dust in this room to tell her that it was rarely used and likely unmonitored, and she had locked the door just in case. She’d cleared out a little corner in the back of the room to practice in. She couldn’t practice this divination in the dorms behind the paltry protection of her curtain, or in the public practice rooms, after all. It was illegal for anyone besides the coppers to sympathetically scry for a human.

As always, she started with the Circle. Divination was finicky. For power, the spell required special candles infused with scented oils and dyed certain colors, rather than a coal brazier or her much more convenient lantern. She set them evenly around the main Circle’s edges, in the component Circles meant for them.

Then she placed the map, which covered the entirety of Gilbratha. It was fairly accurate everywhere except the Mires, which were haphazard and frequently changing, a sea of shanty houses built out of old wood and white stone stolen from the dwindling remains of the southern white cliffs.

The spell had a few prerequisites, and in some ways was more like alchemy than the actively cast sorcery she practiced in her classes. Actively cast spells would dissipate as soon as she released her Will, but with ritual magic, spells were not controlled by the Word of a spell array, but woven into and absorbed by the matter they were bound to through the practice of the ritual. The magic created a kind of multi-dimensional weave with its host, which was self-sustaining enough to be semi-permanent. This was what allowed potions to work months or sometimes even years after they had been brewed. As a tradeoff, it took way longer and lost about a third of the energy immediately, with the remaining magical effect slowly degrading after that.

Sebastien used some small pieces of dirt, rock, and slivers of bark that she had collected from a relatively wide section of the city and carefully labeled. She placed them on the map as precisely as possible, corresponding with the places she’d obtained them, then added a handful of tent spikes, for their concept of anchoring.

She dipped her finger in the wax of the nearest candle, suppressing a wince at the heat of it. The wax quickly cooled as she drew her hand away, creating a film over her skin. She repeated the process with the other five candles until her fingertip had a thick coating of layered wax. Concentrating hard on her memory of each anchor spot in the city, she first touched a tent spike, then, as if pulling a thread from it to the map, she drew a hexagram around one of the pebbles. As she moved, slowly and deliberately, as if the spell was an animal that might attack if she startled it, she chanted in a low voice. “To the earth you are bound. Weight of stone, iron, and root. Foot to foot, head to head, heart to heart. As the roots of a tree are reflected in its branches, be as one.” The candles flickered, and the wax at her fingertip grew a little softer.

‘No mistakes. Your Will is absolute,’ she told herself, redoubling her concentration. She could have done this from outside the Circle, using a long stick to write instead of her finger, but the book she’d learned the spell from had cautioned against sloppiness, and she knew from her work with alchemy that any feeling of detachment would work against the purpose of the spell, which was all about creating sameness and connectivity, to the point that in the eyes of magic, one became the other.

Panting once she finished, she cleared away the dirt, bark, and stone, putting them back into their labeled bags. She would need to use them again any time she wanted to recast the spell, because with such a short ritual, and the map being a precreated item that hadn’t been inherently changed during casting, the spell’s weave would unravel and degrade quickly.

A single pea sized drop of mercury—the most expensive part of the spell—came next. Her cauldron was much too big for it, so she used a small glass bowl the size of a finger cymbal, large enough to hold only a single swallow. She placed it in the center of the map instead of over any of the flames, dropping the mercury from its vial into the bowl. “To search and seek. To hark and peek,” she began, slowly and deliberately adding the ear of a bat, an eagle’s eye, and a tiny glass lens from a child’s toy. She stirred, six times six, with a rod made of dehydrated sprite honey mixed with the powder of a lava-pepper. The rod shrank with each stir, until she was holding only a stub, and within the little bowl sat a trembling, mirrorlike ball of spelled mercury, still only the size of a pea despite the amalgamated components.

The final step was the actual divination spell, which did require a spell array. Moving the map and mercury to the side, she drew it carefully and consulted the book to make sure she’d not forgotten anything. She’d already studied the spell to ensure she fully understood the purpose of each glyph, numerological symbol, and word, but now she reviewed them all again. The map went back into the Circle, and a tiny dot of the mercury was placed in its center, with the rest set aside for future attempts. She caught the tip of a little bundle of dried herbs on fire in the nearest candle, snuffed the flame immediately, then waved the bundle about to let the herb smoke settle through the air.

Remembering how she’d seen Liza work at one point, Sebastien drew a hexagram with the smoke, then glyphs for “key” which could also be interpreted as “answer,” and “discovery.”

Using one of her own hairs—which was much less likely to have people panicking and calling for the coppers than a drop of blood if she were to be discovered—she began to cast, focusing on how desperately she needed to know exactly where her missing blood was.

The most difficult part of the map-based divination spell was that she lacked the skill to work past the huge beacon that was the blood in her own body.

That was the downside to scrying for her own blood.

The upside was that if it was someone else’s blood, with a weaker sympathetic connection, a sorcerer as unskilled and untalented at divination as she was might not have been able to successfully cast the spell at all.

The first couple of times she attempted it, the tiny dot of spelled mercury rolled across the map to the University, and more specifically, the western edge of the Citadel where the abandoned storage room was. She was scrying herself. “Yay,” she said dully, sagging back as she released her draw on the special candles.

It would have been a small silver lining if her ward had activated, because she could have found a way to make that useful, but there had only been a gentle tingle in her back before it fell silent. Apparently, it was impossible to cast a divination spell on herself while simultaneously warding one off, as they were strictly opposing thought processes, and her mind couldn’t split into two independent consciousnesses. This meant that she couldn’t simply cast a scrying spell on herself whenever she wanted to sneak around without being noticed.

When the pin-head sized dot of spelled mercury lost its shininess—and its magic—she gave up. She only had so many attempts before she would need to buy more, and “try harder” did not seem to be the answer.

More research revealed a solution to the first problem. She found the answer, ironically, in a book that leaned more toward history than magical instruction. Liza had, perhaps, mentioned her participation in the Haze War for a reason.

It was the perfect example of how necessity—war—stimulated invention. The war had started over greed for Lenore’s celerium mines and the foreign invention of an improved method for divination-based, long-range attacks. Silva Erde and several smaller countries had banded together against Lenore. This led to the counter-invention of an anti-divination fog. This “haze” was spread over the tactical areas and battlefields, blocking the targeting ability of enemy long-range attacks. The haze inspired the creation of a biological warfare philtre that spread on the air and thrived in the low-light of the haze. Of course, this led to an immediate improvement in wearable air-filtering and skin-protecting artifacts. Stronger divination spells began to filter through the haze. Reverse-scrying spells were vastly improved, making them much more dangerous for the distant attackers, who could be pinpointed through their own attacks and attacked in turn. Eventually, exploring the principles behind how the haze actually worked, Lenore discovered the existence of divination rays and revolutionized the anti-divination field.

While the concepts were mentioned, many of the spells themselves were still either confidential or beyond her access level, but the basics of reverse-scrying were available freely, since the concept far predated the recent military improvements.

As the book suggested, once a diviner sent out feelers, it was much harder to stop someone following those feelers back to the source. Sebastien could piggyback on the searching magic of the coppers’ attempt to scry for her, thus overriding the pull of the blood in her own body to find the few drops they were using.

Of course, there were wards to stop that kind of thing, but apparently, they were expensive, prone to failing, and generally not useful for domestic law enforcement, because they had no need to disguise the fact that they were scrying for you. If you found and approached them, it only made their arrest of you easier.

Sebastien couldn’t practice that variation successfully until they made an attempt to find her at a convenient time, but she still tried to increase her facility with divination spells. Holding off the scrying attempt at the same time as tracking it back would be very difficult, and if she wasn’t prepared, either of the spells might fail. If the divination failed, she only risked Will-strain, but if the divination-diverting ward failed, she might actually be caught. The ward wasn’t strong enough to hold off the coppers without her active participation.

The only reason she could—hypothetically—do both at once was because, first, the ward handled most of the actual work for her, only needing her to feed it more power rather than control the spell. Secondly, the ward against divination was shielding against someone else, which was the same target she was attempting to find. It was like two people hiding in a dark forest, both trying to find the other, which was conceptually possible, as opposed to attempting to move and be still at the same time, which…wasn’t. Hopefully it worked. If it didn’t, she was unlikely to kill anyone except herself, as long as she cast it in a suitably secluded area.

She set aside most of her free time all week to practice in the abandoned storage room, prepared to wake early and slip back out to eat breakfast before her first class started.

Her ire with Professor Pecanty flared back to life when she returned to Modern Magics on Wednesday, but she suppressed it.

Professor Burberry used a dab of hair-loss potion on the mice they had used to practice the color-changing transmogrification spell, then used another potion to help the fur regrow.

Some students’ mice grew colored fur, somehow permanently, inherently changed by the spell. Most regrew the same solid white as before. At the place where the potions had been used, Sebastien’s grew back a little splotch of white hair, which stood out starkly on its otherwise rainbow-colored pelt. She felt the uncomfortable prickling of shame as she stared at it. ‘Maybe if Professor Pecanty would actually help me understand, I could do it better,’ she snarled to herself.

Professor Burberry handed out contribution points to those who’d managed to create truly permanent change.

Ana nudged Sebastien, giving her a small smile. “Don’t be too harsh on yourself, Sebastien. I’m sure you can get it, if you try again. It’s not as if your grade will be marked down just because you didn’t manage to imbue the entire mouse with enhanced properties. You did change the color of the fur, and you did it perfectly.”

Sebastien shook her head, and Ana looked like she might keep trying to comfort her, or encourage her, or whatever she was trying to do, but then Westbay came up holding his flower-patterned rodent and distracted her. “Do you think the colors would pass down to a child if I bred it with a white mouse? Or what if we bred a red mouse and a green mouse? Do we get brown mice babies?” He reached into his pocket and fed the creature a little piece of bread roll that he’d taken from breakfast.

“I don’t know, but I wonder if brightly colored rabbits or other docile creatures might make a good gift product for children,” Ana said. “My little sister would probably love a bright pink mouse.”

Sebastien, with what she thought was incredible self-control, did not throw herself into practicing the color-change spell outside of class. Her focus remained on preparing for the reverse-scrying.

The only side project she allowed herself was making sure she had a dozen ink spells drawn on parchment and ready to go. With the fire-retardant seaweed paper, she actually didn’t have to use her blood to keep the paper from burning up along the lines of the spell array. Sebastien had realized, after all the research into divination she’d been doing, how incredibly stupid her plan had been. By removing her blood from the barrier of her skin, she had made it theoretically possible for the coppers to find it, even if they couldn’t find her.

‘How did the coppers not find me already? Do they know where I am and are just toying with me for some reason? Maybe they want me to lead them to my accomplices.’ But if that were the case, why would they have continued their attempts, over and over? She wasn’t entirely oblivious, and she’d noticed nothing suspicious, no one watching her or going through her things.

Perhaps they hadn’t found her yet, after all. If so, that might have something to do with how she kept her school supplies nearby constantly, and the divination-diverting ward had some minimal area-of-effect capabilities that affected perception around her. They had no way to find that blood without finding her, and she was very thoroughly warded. If she had left the inkwell or a paper spell with her blood far enough away that the coppers could conceivably find it instead of her…or if they had been using a spell with different divination outputs that would give them information only on the inkwell instead of broad information that included her…

Maybe they had been having the same trouble as her with scrying for anything small past the huge beacon of her body, but she didn’t know enough about how the ward worked to count on that. With most wards, whatever was behind them would be completely blocked off, and that would only make it more likely for their magic to focus on the unwarded traces of her.

In shuddering horror, she had destroyed the whole inkwell along with the small paper spell array she’d created previously, then gone through all her things casting the shedding-disintegration spell over and over, ensuring not even a drop of blood-laced ink, or hair, or anything remained.

When her racing heart had calmed, she tried to think of any other critical mistakes she might have made. She held a trembling hand to her lips, holding in a tremulous laugh. With her track record, she probably had made more than one, and just didn’t realize it.

‘The blood print vows I made, what about those? Could the coppers scry for those, even if they cannot find me?’ She had a copy of each, but so did Katerin and Liza. Liza’s would definitely be behind wards, and she was pretty sure Katerin’s would, too, but her own copies might not be safe. They were hidden with the stolen book at Dryden Manor. Of course, the spell did have restrictions against any use of the blood without one of the parties having broken their vow, but she wasn’t sure if that also acted as a ward against divination. She resolved to make sure Dryden Manor was properly warded, and if not, learn to set up small anti-divination wards herself. Luckily, that was a small amount of blood, barely a drop, and would give off a much smaller beacon than the amount she’d added to the ink or the mass of her own body.

When she had calmed enough that her hand didn’t shake, she laid down spell arrays, in ink only, on her seaweed paper. She made some of them large enough that she had to fold up the spell array to get it to fit inconspicuously within her bag, while others were small and ready to be used immediately, only requiring that she place their components for rapid casting. She’d decided on fourteen simple spells that she thought could help in a variety of emergency situations.

In the middle of the night, as if they were trying to catch her off guard, the coppers scried for her again. The prickling of cold needles in her back woke her as her ward went to work before she was even conscious.

‘The Citadel will probably be locked at this time of night, and besides, I don’t have any time to waste.’ It wasn’t as safe as her abandoned classroom, but instead she went to one of the more inconvenient bathrooms on the dorm’s second floor, where there were fewer students. She checked the stalls rapidly, then shoved a wedge of wood underneath the door from the inside to keep it from opening. She’d taken the wedge from the door of a random classroom days before, for situations specifically like this.

She had all the components for the mapped divination spell, but casting the prerequisite magic on the map, which had worn off since her earlier practice, was torturously slow and difficult, with much of her attention split toward warding off the coppers’ attention. The reverse-scry itself might have actually been easier than the setup, being more congruent in concept and intent.

She had barely finished anchoring the map and was only a couple of seconds into the reverse-scry when the five disks embedded in her back calmed, the pressure easing.

Rather than sigh in relief, Sebastien slumped forward, letting out a low groan of defeat. ‘Did they sense what I was doing? Is that why they stopped? But it was so soon! The mercury had barely even started to tremble!’

She paced for a while, her reverse-scrying spell waiting in the stall farthest from the door, some part of her hoping that the coppers would try again.

They did not.

Reluctantly accepting this, Sebastien quenched the candles, packed up the spell components, and tried her best to go back to sleep.

The coppers didn’t try again over the next couple of days, and she worried that they really had sensed her attempt to find her blood and become more wary. It was…disheartening, but she continued to practice, just in case. She didn’t have time to make real progress with the paper design, or practice any of the spells until they were second nature, so she focused on those she’d been long familiar with, or which she was practicing in Professor Burberry’s Modern Magics and her other classes. Having them ready in her satchel made her feel a little more prepared, even if they weren’t particularly powerful.

On Thursday morning, she got a little too engrossed with practice in the abandoned classroom on the second floor and forgot to stop for breakfast.

She hurried back to the dorms to put the divination components away in the chest at the foot of her bed before History of Magic. Professor Ilma always jumped into the lecture right away, and Sebastien would miss out if she was even a minute late.

In her hurry, she wasn’t paying attention to where she was walking, and ran right into Tanya, their female student liaison and Newton’s counterpart, outside the dorm as they both turned a corner.

Tanya was surprising solid, and rather than falling or stumbling, she spun around to snatch the spelled paper bird she had dropped out of the air before it could flutter feebly away. She didn’t bother to stop, simply snapping, “Watch where you’re walking, Siverling. You could put a lady’s shoulder out.”

“I’m sorry!” Sebastien called after her.

Tanya waved an uncaring hand in the air without looking back, her head bowed to read whatever message had been folded inside the spelled piece of paper.

As Sebastien grabbed the homework she’d left in her trunk and emptied her school bag of the bulky divination components, she heard the shuffle of hard leather on stone. She whipped her head around to see Westbay slouching against the entrance of her little stone cubicle, his chestnut hair perfect and his grey eyes staring out over the seemingly constant bags of fatigue under them. She wondered idly if the condition was genetic, because he slept almost nine hours every night.

She shoved the lid of her chest shut before turning to him. “What do you want, Westbay? Shouldn’t you be getting to class?” The rest of the dorm was almost completely empty, except for a few students rushing off to their first class. Considering the sprawling expanse of the University grounds, they were already likely to be late unless they ran.

He shrugged. “It’s just History of Magic. A different section than whatever class you’re in. My professor won’t even realize I’m gone. Say, have you read any more of those Aberford Thorndyke stories I lent you? I got the latest issue delivered. I can pass it on once I’m finished, if you’re up to speed on the timeline.”

Sebastien was torn between rolling or narrowing her eyes. ‘He’s not one to skip classes so nonchalantly. Is he truly that desperate for someone to talk about his little detective stories, or is he fishing? How long was he standing there?’ She reached for the curtain beside the opening to her dormitory cubicle. ‘Best to be calculated in my response, let him feel comfortable enough to give himself away.’ “Sure, but I’m not finished with the stack you gave me before, so there’s no—” Her tongue stumbled to a halt and her eyes widened for a moment before she controlled her expression.

Westbay looked at her with confusion.

“I just remembered something. Homework. Sorry, Westbay, no time to talk. You should go to class even if your professor isn’t noting your attendance. History is important.” With that rushed tumble of words, she pulled the curtain shut right in his face.

She was being scried.

As she pulled the components for the reverse-scrying spell back out again, she listened to Westbay’s footsteps retreat. With hands quickened by worry, she pulled the components for the reverse-scrying spell back out again. It seemed she might not be getting to class after all.

After checking to make sure she was alone, Sebastien carefully laid everything out on the floor of her cubicle. In a way, the timing was lucky. Many of the most time-consuming parts of the divination were in the prerequisite spells cast on the components like the drop of mercury and the map. Without being an artifact itself, the magic on the map would wear off somewhat quickly, but it was still ready to go at the moment.

As quickly as she could, she drew the spell array, then placed the candles, the map, and the dot of mercury, along with a bronze mirror she’d polished herself and a few other components that would help her augment the target of the divination. She dabbed a bit of herb smoke around and began to scry. Carefully.

It was more difficult than she’d expected. Much more. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the power, though that was part of the problem. It was her concentration. The clarity and stability of her Will, for one of the first times in recent memory, proved unable to meet her demands. ‘Maybe it’s because I am so exceptionally untalented with divination,’ she thought bitterly.

Rather than stiffening, she relaxed and controlled her breathing, routing every last drop of energy and control to her Will.

A part of her attention went toward feeding the divination-diverting ward in her back, deflecting attention and slipping away from the prying tendrils of the rival sorcerer. That part was easier, and didn’t require the same focus that reaching out through the city for a tiny missing piece of herself did. She couldn’t get too focused on the spell, or her ward would grow weak enough that they might find her, but splitting energy and concentration like this was not something that came naturally to humans.

It was like trying to play two different songs on the piano at the same time. The reverse-divination was difficult and complicated, while empowering the ward took only a couple of plinking notes, but it was still almost impossible to keep them going together. Trying to cast two actual spells at the same time would have taken the equivalent of four hands, and while she was reluctant to say that it was impossible, it would require both spells to be merged into a single, more complicated spell with multiple outputs, rather than two separate spell arrays.

The dot of spelled mercury moved over the map, and at first her insides tightened with frustration, because it was just finding her again, but then it rolled right over the spot where it usually stopped.

The mercury settled at a spot she judged to be slightly northwest of the student dorms.

She held the spell for a couple more seconds, staring at the map. Then she let the magic go, shoving everything haphazardly into her trunk, uncaring of the hot candle wax spilling onto her belongings. She didn’t bother with a locking spell. It was too different from the magic of the planar ward, and she didn’t want to risk failure.

‘My blood is at the University.’

She shook her head. ‘But the coppers have it, don’t they? I expected to find it at their station, or maybe at the prison, or even a black site where they hold important evidence. So why is it at Eagle Tower?’ She hurried from the room and out of the building, moving with purpose but without panic.

Eagle Tower was where the professors and high level students carried out their experiments, Sebastien knew.

‘It could have been here all along, if my information was wrong from the beginning, but I don’t think so. There’s a reason the pressure is so much stronger this time. Did they give my blood to the University in hopes the diviners here could do a better job? The University does have a stake in my capture, after all. The book was theirs. But would the coppers give up such a big win? It seems unlikely. They’re tenacious, as evidenced by the continued attempts to find me despite their ongoing failure.’ She walked along the winding path into the cultivated woods between the Citadel and Eagle Tower. The scrying attempt was getting stronger as it went on, and had already been going for several minutes, longer and harder than most she’d fended off before.

‘Maybe that’s it. They’ve failed to find me and this is their next move. A better spell array than whatever they have access to at Harrow Hill, stronger thaumaturges, maybe more than one casting the spell at the same time. And they’re close to me, even if they don’t realize it. That’ll make it easier. This is their sharper knife, their bigger hammer, the thing they pull out when they really need a win.’

As Eagle Tower appeared through the veil of trees, she looked up at the looming obelisk of pale stone. ‘If they’re powerful enough to find me, I have to stop them. Somehow.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

For a smart person, Siobhan can be very stupid...

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-50-eagle-tower/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 50 - Eagle Tower

A note from AzaleaEllis

Some changes have been made to Chapter 49: Reverse Scrying to fix an error I wrote into the story, which was pointed out to me by a sharp-eyed reader. If you don't want to re-read, the update is rather small: Sebastien realizes she cannot use blood to stabilize her paper-painted spell arrays because it could be used as a divination target. Luckily, with seaweed paper her simple, low-powered spells are still not in danger of combustion.

I may have written this story and designed the magic system, but I still make mistakes when I run with unplanned ideas that come to me in the moment...

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 17, Thursday 9:00 a.m.

Sebastien hesitated for a moment, staring up at Eagle Tower. ‘Should I just walk away? Avoid the risk and go to class along with everyone else, hide among the other students and hope no one notices me?’ She played with the possibility in her mind, but she knew she wouldn’t actually stop.

Moving ahead was risky, but it was also an opportunity. As long as she held off the scrying attempt—which was becoming increasingly difficult with every passing minute—the downsides seemed minor. At most, she’d be seen as a curious student hanging about where she shouldn’t. Maybe she could learn something important.

If she instead ignored what was happening, perhaps there was some future upside to be gained from patience, but, by the very nature of the future’s inscrutability, she couldn’t see what it might be.

So, after a pause to tuck her student token and restricted library pass into the pile of dirt and leaves at the base of the tree beside her, she kept walking. She didn’t want the University to be able to look up the logs of everyone who had entered Eagle Tower and find her name on them. If necessary, she would wait outside for someone to leave and slip in behind them.

Luckily, it turned out the entranceway wasn’t warded to require a student token like the Menagerie. She walked right in with no trouble.

The tower seemed even bigger on the inside, like a slightly smaller version of the Citadel. A hallway circled around between the single central room on each floor and the squat, wedge-shaped rooms on the outside. The walls of the inner room on each level were made of reinforced glass, so the researchers within were visible to those outside. Everything was brightly lit. It gave off a feeling of clarity and cleanliness. The researchers within would always be aware they were visible. It would help to keep their minds sharp and their experiments to the proper procedure.

It also let her see that she was on the wrong floor. As if designed to make navigating the tower more difficult, the entrance to the stairwell was all the way across the building from the main door, at the other end of the curving hallway. And when she got to it, the door was locked. ‘This is where they require the student token,’ she realized. ‘But it probably wouldn’t even matter if I went back and got mine. I’m not authorized to be here in the first place.’

Since the last time she’d been in a similar situation, two stories up on the outside of the crappy little inn her father had rented, she’d taken the time to study a few unlocking spells.

But she was a first term student at the University with a Conduit that could channel barely more than two hundred thaums. This lock was visible to the rest of the floor. The mechanism was both physical and magical, and no doubt cast by someone much more experienced than her.

One of her paper utility arrays was an unlocking spell, and she could use the slate lap table she’d taken from the abandoned supply room to support the page and the necessary components at the level of the door handle, which would speed the process of casting. However, she’d still be doing it right in the middle of everyone, and she couldn’t imagine that Eagle Tower didn’t have protections against such rudimentary magic. There was a high chance she would fail and end up setting off the alarms.

She’d paused for a second too long, staring at the obstacle between her and where she needed to be, when a hand reached out from beside her and opened the door, holding it open for her.

She turned, looking a couple inches down into mercurial grey eyes. “Westbay,” she said.

He waved her through.

She stepped into the stairwell, off-kilter. ‘He followed me.’

He waved a metal token at her. “You need one of these to get through the doors here. Maybe you didn’t know, if you’ve never been in here before.”

“And how do you have one?”

“I swiped it off some random person’s desk.”

On the other side of the doorway, within the silence of the stairwell, she stared at him. She didn’t make fumbled excuses about why she was in Eagle Tower. She didn’t ask him what he was doing, before at the dorms and now, right here with her when they both should have been in class. Instead, she stared silently, as if she could read his micro expressions like letters strung together on a page, as if her eyes could pierce past his skull and see into his soul.

He stared back for a few seconds, but then his eyelids fluttered and he looked away. “I…�� he swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, offering up answers to her unspoken questions under the pressure of her gaze. “I’ve just noticed some things lately. You’ve been…distracted. Or, focused, but just on something different. And I was curious. And…I thought maybe you could use some backup?” He grinned a little, slightly nervous but with a spark of real excitement. “Don’t worry. No one saw me, and I dropped my student token under the same tree you did.”

Suddenly, Sebastien had a realization. ‘He thinks we’re in an Aberford Thorndyke story. This is just… He thinks we’re about to have an adventure.’ She was simultaneously relieved that he wasn’t a threat and irritated, almost offended, by the casual level he seemed to live at. ‘Nothing matters to him, because there have never been any real stakes for him—nothing he really stands to lose. Maybe he can’t even comprehend that it’s not the same for everyone else.’

“That’s an interesting stealth spell you’re casting,” he said, squinting at her. “An artifact, or is it something esoteric? I can feel that you’re here, but my eyes keep wanting to slip away, and I’m having trouble focusing mentally on you, like my thoughts want to slip around to the idea of you rather than the reality of you.”

‘If only that had kept you from following me, you thickheaded peacock.’ She barely kept herself from snapping the words at him aloud. ‘Or maybe he’s more cunning than that, only trying to seem harmless so I will not realize the danger he poses to me.’

“The spell is privileged information,” she replied. “Family secret.”

He seemed to recognize the hostility she couldn’t keep from her voice. He raised his hands. “I won’t pry. I was just curious. Everyone has their family secrets. But you are doing something?”

She was about to tell him to walk away and go read his detective magazines if he wanted a sense of excitement in his life when an upper-term student, a research assistant probably studying for Grandmastery, walked down the stairs.

He stopped and looked at the two of them. “Firsties? What are you doing here?”

Westbay stepped forward. “Bruner. I can’t believe you’re still here. What is it, your thirteenth term?”

Bruner narrowed his eyes. “Westbay? Oh. I—I didn’t recognize you at first. Should have known by the eyes.”

“No matter,” Westbay said, waving his hand with regal nonchalance. We’re on an errand for one of our professors. No time to chat at the moment, but maybe I’ll see you at a Family gathering sometime.”

Bruner’s eyes widened, and then he bowed.

Westbay grabbed Sebastien by the arm and began to drag her up the stairs.

Bruner turned and bowed again as they climbed past him, stammering. “Oh, yes, definitely. I would be honored to attend a Westbay gathering. At your convenience. Thank you, Westbay, good to see you.”

They left Bruner behind, and Sebastien swallowed the scathing words she had been going to say. “Useful,” she admitted instead, grudgingly.

Westbay grinned. “Thank you. The Family name does come in handy sometimes. Now why are we here?”

Sebastien eyed him with consideration. ‘He’s irritating and spoiled, at best, but he hasn’t told anyone about the accident in the defense building or my subsequent Will-strain. I still owe him a favor. Perhaps he doesn’t want to get rid of an asset before it can bear fruit. And as he’s just shown, he can be useful, through no merit of his own.’

Aloud, she said, “No questions. In fact, don’t talk at all.” She looked around, then turned back to the stairwell, motioning impatiently for Westbay to open the door for her.

“Where are we g—” He snapped his mouth shut halfway through the question, then smothered a smile that made him look like a child who’d just stolen a cookie from the jar and was reveling in the thrill of it with the friend eating the other half of the cookie. He tried to put on a serious face, but the excitement kept peeking through.

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered.

A spark of ire flared in his eyes, but slipped away just as quickly as it had come in favor of a rueful smirk. “And you’re a porcupine,” he muttered when her back was turned.

With saint-like self-control, Sebastien ignored him. She might have found him harmlessly amusing if the situation wasn’t so critical.

She found what she was looking for on the fourth floor of the tower.

It was busier than the floors below, filled with both coppers and a good handful of the faculty. Within the central, glass-walled room, a handful of coppers with sorcery experience were aiding a trio of prognos with the scrying spell. They stood around a huge Circle engraved into the marble tiles of the floor in precious metals and gems, with the type of components Sebastien had only ever read about in books powering the spell.

Her eyes flicked around, taking in the University staff and group of coppers watching this from the hallway. Both groups stood separately.

The University staff were tense, though some did a better job of hiding it than others, and the coppers beside them weren’t hostile, but were far from relaxed. The University staff didn’t want the coppers there.

‘But why not? That doesn’t make sense. One would think they’d be happy that the coppers have a better chance of finding me with the more powerful scrying array. Except there’s some sort of conflict of interest here. I have no idea what it could be about. What exactly is written in that book?’

Her observation and contemplation were finished in the mere two seconds that had passed since she’d opened the stairwell door.

She moved toward the closed door of a room on the outside of the hallway. Someone’s office, currently empty, which she knew because no light came through under the door. She closed the door behind herself and Westbay and turned to the window that showed the view of the hallway and central room. Moving slowly, she peeked around the edge of the drawn curtain.

The pressure on her divination-diverting ward was growing stronger.

‘I made a mistake,’ she admitted to herself. ‘There’s nothing I can do here. But I’ll watch and wait. Maybe…there will be an opportunity if I’m clever enough to notice it. If I can wait them out, maybe I could see where they keep the blood, if they take it back with them or perhaps even leave it here. Though it would be easier if Westbay weren’t looking over my shoulder.’

“That’s a divination spell,” Westbay murmured. “Who are they looking for?”

She didn’t respond.

He smoothed a nonexistent hair back from his face. “I have a spell that can enhance hearing. Maybe we could…listen in?”

That was enough to gain her attention, despite the increasing strain of empowering her ward against scrying.

His eyes slid off her. Without waiting for further response, he dug into the couple dozen pockets built into his suit vest and jacket for components.

‘At least he’s thaumaturge enough to keep himself stocked with the basics at all times.’

Two minutes later, he’d used a thin black stick to draw a spell array on both palms. He didn’t use any components, shaking his head at her offer of the small lantern she carried in her bag. “It barely uses any power. The warmth of my hand will be more than enough. This spell is all about…control.” Somewhat comically, he placed his hands behind his ears, cupping and swiveling them like he was pretending to be a dog.

She caught the faint smell of honey. ‘Are the components part of the array itself? Maybe honey for capturing sound and charcoal for filtering?’ She was curious, but it would be rude to inquire or study the spell array too closely. Some magic was a closely guarded secret passed down within families or from master to apprentice, and Westbay had just refrained from questioning her about the spell he thought she was casting to avoid notice.

“It enlarges the surface area that can capture incoming sounds, filters them, and lets me artificially focus my hearing,” he murmured, wincing when he turned back to the hallway. “Loud.” After a few seconds, his expression settled into fascination. “They’re chanting. For the spellcasting. It’s advanced. I haven’t heard anything like it.”

Sebastien straightened her shoulders, settling her mind. The Conduit in her off hand was flush with energy, the five Circles in the flesh of her back were cold and filled with the sensation of needles, and she imagined that within half an hour she would start feeling faint from blood loss. ‘How long can this go on?’ It was becoming increasingly obvious that she was the metaphorical frog being slowly boiled alive, too stupid to realize the water was heating.

“Someone in the hallway just said something about the Raven Queen,” Westbay said. He stared blankly for a moment, and then his head turned slowly toward Sebastien. “They’re scrying for her...right now?”

She had a sudden vision of herself in jail, trying to convince the coppers as Sebastien Siverling that she had no idea why Siobhan Naught’s blood kept leading back to her. ‘Would they believe me, if I pretended that I’d met the Raven Queen and had my blood stolen by the “evil sorceress” to use as a red herring and lead the investigation in the wrong direction?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sure they have wards against untruth, and obviously they have access to more than one prognos. They’d know right away if I tried to lie. And with enough reason to look into me, they’d tear my entire backstory apart.’

She tried to estimate how many thaums of heat and blood she was channeling. ‘Close to two hundred, already. So according to what Liza told me, they must be channeling many times that. There are so many of them, they can probably keep going well beyond what I can handle. So I have two viable options. Sticking around is no longer feasible. I can ask Westbay to borrow his Conduit, which is surely rated much higher than mine, or I can run now and hope that I’m far enough away by the time their scrying spell breaks through my ward that they can’t catch me.’

She felt flushed beneath her jacket and scarf, but resisted the urge to pace back and forth between walls that felt like they were closing in. ‘If I borrow Westbay’s Conduit, he’ll wonder why I need it. He might connect the dots. If I run, at least I have the gold I sewed into the lining of my clothing and boots.’There might still be time to get her things from the dorms. If she hired a carriage, she could be halfway out of Gilbratha before they found her. If it turned out she could, somehow, hold out longer than they could, she could simply return as if all was well. ‘Or...should I attack Westbay and take his Conduit? If I could keep him from sounding the alarm until I’d escaped, I’d at least have a Conduit powerful enough to handle my Will. It would buy me a few more minutes, maybe half an hour.’ The thought made her feel a small prick of guilt. He was often irritating, but he hadn’t done anything to truly deserve that.‘His family could afford to buy him twenty more of those without worrying about the budget for their next high society ball. It wouldn’t hurt him at all for me to take it, except for a blow to his pride,’ she reasoned.

She was considering it, thinking about how she might have him follow her back to the dorms, steal his Conduit, and then tie him up in one of the bathroom stalls before escaping, when someone else, someone she hadn’t expected to see, opened the door to the fourth floor.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-51-saved-by-the-enemy/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 51 - Saved by the Enemy

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 17, Thursday 9:05 a.m.

Tanya Canelo, their other student liaison, looked around, breathing a little too hard, as if she’d run to Eagle Tower and up the stairs. She didn’t notice Westbay or Sebastien in the small side office, her eyes landing instead on the spellcasters in the tower’s central room. She stared at them for a few seconds with narrow eyes, then looked to the crystal wall clock on the other side of the hallway.

‘Why is she here?’

Tanya touched her jacket pocket, then spun around back to the stairwell, hurrying to one of the upper floors.

Sebastien’s mind was grasping at mist, feeling that she was missing something, but too occupied by feeding the planar divination-diverting ward to bring her full mental capacity to bear.

She’d turned to tell Westbay they should leave, but was barely halfway through the sentence when the first screeching wail of a siren reached them. That distant siren was quickly followed by others, all sounding in concert, melding into one city-wide warning.

Westbay’s head jerked back and he yanked his hands away from his ears, dropping the sound-enhancing spell. “Again? It hasn’t even been two weeks since the last one.”

A few seconds later, the pressure of the divination spell searching for Sebastien disappeared. She felt a relief that not even the sound of the rogue magic sirens could ruin. Gilbratha’s coppers were used to this, and prepared for it. They would handle the danger, and even if they failed she was safe inside a heavily warded building, manned by people dozens of times more powerful than her. As long as the danger wasn’t inside with them, she would most likely be safe.

Some of the people outside grumbled, some were obviously worried, but none hesitated to leave. Most headed downstairs, while a few of the staff went up instead, probably to man the watchtower and magical weapons set into the highest level of the tower.

A handful of coppers tried to join them in going up, but were rebuffed.

‘There’s conflict between the University and the coppers, beyond just wanting to catch me,’ Sebastien realized. ‘The University doesn’t want to give the coppers access to their power at all. I didn’t expect that. I thought the University was happily subject to the Thirteen Crowns, even if they had their own power structure.’

“This is terrible timing,” Westbay said, scowling at the emptying central room. “They can’t keep casting during a citywide emergency. I’m sure they would have caught her otherwise. There’s a shelter in the first basement level. We’ll have to join them.” He brightened, moving toward the doorway. “Hey, maybe they’ll talk about the investigation. We might learn something interesting.”

Sebastien reached out and stopped Westbay from opening the door.

He turned to look at her curiously, able to focus on her normally now that the anti-divination ward was deactivated.

After thinking it over, she stepped back. “Nevermind. Go ahead, then.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you not coming?”

“I have something to do, first.”

“I’m staying too, then,” he said stubbornly.

“Whatever set those sirens off could be anywhere. It might not be safe,” she tried, hoping to appeal to his logic. “I would wager the University has a higher incidence of Aberrants than the rest of the city. So many thaumaturges in a relatively small area. You should know the numbers. Your Family runs the coppers, right?”

He swallowed, hesitated for a few seconds, but still shook his head. “I’m not going to miss out on this. The curiosity would kill me. Unless you promise to tell me what you find?”

She should have known an appeal to logic was futile. “I promise.”

His expression of hope collapsed. “You’re lying. You’ll just pretend you didn’t find anything interesting if I don’t come along and see it with my own two eyes. Otherwise you would have brought me in on whatever this is from the beginning.” He sniffed with irritation.

‘He’s not a complete idiot.’ Aloud, she said, “We’re not friends, Westbay, and I’ve yet to see you do anything useful except throw your Family’s name around. I had no reason to bring you in on this.”

His look of irritation deepened into something harsher. “Oh, so you knew about the door-pass tokens? You had a handy spell to eavesdrop on what they were saying? I may not be a once-in-a generation prodigy, but you shouldn’t underestimate me. I’m staying.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Sebastien scraped her tongue against the inside of her teeth to keep herself silent, turning to look out the window for any signs of stragglers or danger. She wanted to see if she could get into the divination room. If the thaumaturges were careless, maybe they had left her blood behind with the rest of the components when they evacuated. Maybe she could simply walk in and steal it back. ‘All my problems could be solved through a moment of serendipity. But if Westbay comes along, he’ll see me take it. Maybe, if it’s there, I can steal it when he has a moment of inattention. If necessary, I’ll force that moment of inattention.’ Her shadow-familiar spell might do the trick, if she could stretch it around to draw his attention from the opposite direction. She didn’t know any spells to safely knock someone unconscious, unfortunately.

Once Sebastien was sure that the above-ground levels of the tower had emptied, they opened the door and moved into the hallway, the small sounds of their movement drowned out by the piercing sirens. Sebastien moved to the glass wall beside the door of the divination room, her eyes flicking over the components within. She didn’t see her blood immediately, but she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for, either. ‘It could be in any kind of container, or they could even have used it to create a prerequisite spell component and it could be unrecognizable.’ She moved her eyes to the spell array engraved in the floor, hoping to tell where it would be placed by reading the spell’s Word.

The stairwell door flew open, slamming into the wall.

Both Sebastien and Westbay spun around toward it like startled rabbits, jumping about a foot in the air. Westbay even let out a small, high-pitched scream.

Tanya Canelo stood in the open door, obviously as surprised to see them as they were to see her. She was still breathing heavily, either from exertion or fear. She recovered from the surprise first, frowning at them. “What are you two doing here?”

Sebastien and Westbay shared a look.

Tanya’s frown turned into a scowl. “Didn’t you hear the sirens? Why haven’t you evacuated?”

Damien stepped forward, raising his chin like the young aristocrat he was, his previous anxiousness seemingly forgotten. “We heard the sirens. We were in the Menagerie when they went off, and we ran, but it still took us a while to get back. Eagle Tower is the first building we came to, but everyone was already gone when we got here. We’re trying to find the shelter.”

Tanya seemed suspicious, walking toward them slowly. “It’s underground. Like all the shelters.”

“Really? I thought it would be on the top floor. That’s where they keep the weapons, right?”

“Are you qualified to fight against something powerful enough to warrant the sirens?” Tanya scoffed, rolling her eyes. “If not, you should be sheltering underground with everyone else. You may be a Westbay, but you’re only a firstie. Getting greedy for glory will only get you killed.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Come on, we need to go.”

Damien scowled and muttered, “I’m not greedy for glory,” but Tanya ignored him, looking at the ceiling again.

Sebastien was reluctantly impressed with Damien’s deflection. Tanya might not totally buy his story, but she didn’t seem to suspect the real reason for their presence.

Tanya grabbed Sebastien’s arm and tugged. “Come on. If you’re not both in the shelters within the next sixty seconds, I’m giving you both a demerit,” she snapped.

Sebastien resisted the urge to growl in frustration. They would have to run to get five floors down within a minute. Something was strange about the way Tanya was acting. The skin in the other woman’s neck was fluttering under the force of her pulse. ‘Why is she so anxious?’

A pressure moved through the air, like the instant before lighting struck, and Sebastien’s inherent sense of danger screamed at her.

Tanya’s expression twisted with sudden horror, and she yanked forcefully on Sebastien’s arm, hard enough to pull her off balance.

Sebastien leaped into the the force of Tanya’s pull, reaching out for Damien with her free arm. They all stumbled a few feet away from the central room, and Tanya managed to fumble open a door to one of the outer offices.

They were halfway through the doorway, jammed together and blocking the way through, when the the tension in the air broke.

The wave of pressure hit first, slamming them to the floor.

The ceiling collapsed next, from the center outward.

White stones and waves of visible magic tore down from the floor above, destroying the central divination room. Glass burst outward as the reinforced windows buckled. Aftershocks of sound and color swirled around and lashed out as the suddenly-released magic of whatever had been in the room above collided with and destroyed the divination components.

Sebastien lay in the pile of bodies on the floor for a few seconds, covering her head with her arms. When things had settled, she raised her head slowly, carefully, not sure whether the ringing in her ears was from the explosion or the sirens.

The air was full of dust, some cloudy sections shimmering unnaturally with neon colors.

She coughed violently, then pulled up her scarf over her mouth and nose, wiping away the tears streaming from her eyes.

The outer edge of the ceiling above was still intact, and the frame of the doorway they’d all gotten jammed in together had protected them from some of the falling debris.

Sebastien looked around for the source of the damage, up through the destroyed ceiling into the room above. She squinted, but saw nothing moving. ‘Were the sirens set off by some hazard within the tower itself? I’d assumed the danger was more distant. Somewhere else on the University grounds at worst. Stupid of me. Careless.’

Tanya crawled to her hands and knees, coughing and retching, completely coated in dust and disheveled. Her sleeve had been torn back, uncovering her forearm and revealing a fractured spiderwebbing of thin scars, still pink and relatively fresh.

Sebastien stared at the skin for a few seconds, frozen, until Tanya pulled her sleeve down again. “Are you both alright?” Tanya rasped.

Westbay groaned.

The ringing in Sebastien’s ears was settling.

Westbay weakly held up his hand and gave them a thumbs-up.

“No serious injuries. We need to move,” Sebastien said, pulling him to his feet and then offering a hand to Tanya. “Whatever caused that could still be around.” She looked up at the hole in the ceiling again, then over the fallen debris, searching for signs of danger.

Tanya let out another retching cough, but was stable as she regained her feet. She shook her head, holding her sleeve over her mouth to block the dust. She shouted, “The floor above was being used for some alchemy experiments. They must not have properly settled and stored whatever they were working on, and it exploded. But the fumes could be hazardous, and the ceiling might not be sound any more. It could still fall on us.”

“No breathing, no getting crushed by falling stones,” Westbay croaked. “Got it.”

Sebastien gave a last look toward the destroyed divination room, but gave up on the idea of searching it now.

Westbay waved to Tanya to lead the way. When the other girl’s back was turned, he gave Sebastien a searching look.

Sebastien ignored it, staring at Tanya’s back and moving down the stairwell as quickly as she could. A few pieces of rock had hit her legs, and she could feel the bruises already beginning to form.

When they arrived at the first basement level, which had a huge, vault-like iron door on the far side of the room, Tanya knocked on the door and showed both her student token and the tower token that allowed her to open the doors. After a few seconds, someone on the other side unlocked the door and it swung open slowly, with a loud creak of rusty hinges.

A professor scowled out at them, and Sebastien saw that there was a second door behind the first one, which led to a small room between them and the emergency shelter. ‘Smart. It’s not so easy to break through twice.’

The professor looked them over suspiciously, taking in their dreadful state. “Canelo. Were you attacked?”

Tanya shook her head. “There was an explosion. I don’t think it’s related to the sirens. Something on the fifth floor went wrong, collapsed the whole floor. I suspect someone was in too much of a hurry to evacuate to properly settle and clean up whatever they were working on.”

“It’s been almost ten minutes since the sirens went off.”

Tanya rolled her eyes and jerked a thumb toward Sebastien and Westbay. “These two were out in the Menagerie. They got here late and didn’t know where the shelter was. I had to retrieve them, and then…well.” She gestured to herself and the signs of being caught in the alchemy explosion.

“No signs of Will-strain or other oddness in either of them?” the professor asked.

Tanya shook her head. “They’re fine. A little too curious, maybe, and as stupid as most first-term students, but nothing abnormal. I’ll make sure to thoroughly educate them on the proper procedures for evacuation when this is over,” she said, giving the both of them a look promising punishment.

The professor nodded, and then an almost invisible wave pulse from the door through them, a ripple in the air that prickled against Sebastien’s skin. She thought it was the same revealing or maybe nullification spell that came standard in a copper’s battle wand.

The professor turned and opened the inner door for them, apparently unconcerned by the results of the spell.

The people within were tense, and immediately started to question the three new arrivals about the source of the sound and rumbling they’d all felt.

Tanya explained again, and those upper level research-aid students that had been on the fifth floor paled under the glares of everyone else, stammering to make excuses for themselves.

Sebastien took a seat in the corner of the large shelter, which rather than being directly one floor down from the rest of Eagle Tower, was attached to the underground tower level like a component Circle might be attached to the main one in a spell array, her back up against the stone wall.

Damien joined her, a slight frown on his face. Thankfully, he remained silent.

Sebastien’s mind worked swiftly as she watched the crowd, piecing together the things she hadn’t even realized were clues until she saw the final pieces of the puzzle. ‘Tanya got a note from someone, just before the coppers started scrying for me. She was in a hurry. When she got to the tower, she looked at the clock before heading to the fifth floor. She didn’t evacuate with everyone else.’

She fell into speculation, reminding herself not to stare at Tanya too suspiciously.

There was some worry among the others that another Aberrant had spawned, but a while later the professor who’d opened the door for them got a message through one of the spell arrays engraved into it. He threw back his head with a loud sigh and massaged his temples. “It was a false alarm,” he announced loudly, the frustration clear in his voice. “Someone was careless enough to get Eagle Tower blown up for a false alarm.” He glared pointedly at the people from the fifth floor.

The whole room filled with grumbles of frustration and relief, and they filtered out.

Sebastien looked for Tanya in the crowd, tracking the other girl’s dusty blonde hair as she headed toward the dorms. Not just anyone could set off the rogue magic sirens, and from the things she’d pieced together from reports and rumors of Aberrants, it wasn’t a simple process that could be triggered by accident. ‘That is simply too much of a coincidence.’

As if noticing Sebastien’s eyes on her, Tanya moved closer to them and said, “You should both probably go to the infirmary and get checked out.”

“I’m fine,” Sebastien said.

Tanya rolled her jaw with frustration. “Even if you’re not hurting too badly now, that could just be the shock. Something in the air could have been poisonous. At best, you both likely will need a calming potion. You were just caught in an alchemy experiment that could have killed you.” Having done her duty in warning them, Tanya strode off toward the dorms, where she had a room with an attached bathroom to herself.

‘Tanya looked at the clock right before the sirens went off,’ Sebastien repeated to herself. ‘Did she know? Was it planned?’ She looked at her palm. The thin scars where she’d fallen on glass were almost invisible. She’d been extra careful to heal them completely before anyone else had a chance to see them, just in case.

She’d recognized similar scarring on Tanya’s arm. Except Tanya’s scarring had obviously been deeper, and the pattern matched what Sebastien imagined a wound from a glass ball exploding and embedding its pieces into the flesh might look like.

‘Tanya was the sorcerer who attacked Oliver’s warehouse. Which means Tanya is working with the Morrows. And she just blew up the divination room to keep me from being caught. Or, more accurately, to keep Siobhan Naught, the Raven Queen, from being caught.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

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Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-52-faulty-deductions/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 52 - Faulty Deductions

Damien

Month 12, Day 17, Thursday 9:00 a.m.

Damien had noticed Sebastien growing more distant over the last week or so, refusing to join him and his friends in their morning study group even when Damien invited him personally. Sebastien was even missing from the dorms and his regular spot in a corner of the library at the times he would normally be studying or practicing Professor Lacer’s exercises.

In fact, Damien hardly saw Sebastien all week outside of class. It was like Sebastien was trying to distance himself from Damien, which left a pang of admittedly ridiculous hurt in Damien’s chest. He knew Sebastien didn’t particularly like him, which was understandable considering how they had met and their less-than-pleasant interactions since then, but he couldn’t help but be frustrated by how easily the other young man dismissed him. It reminded him a little of his father. Perhaps that was why Damien took notice when he saw Sebastien hurrying down the Citadel’s stairs before their first class period on Thursday morning.

None of the first term classes were held on the second floor. So why would Sebastien be up there? Was that where Sebastien had been hiding away?

Sebastien was walking quickly, heading back toward the dorms, seeming focused more on his own thoughts than the world around him, as he often was.

Damien looked to the door of his History of Magic class, then to Sebastien’s quickly retreating back. He checked the time on his pocket watch. There were only a few minutes left before the first class of the day. He knew Sebastien had a different teacher for this period, specifically requested by Professor Lacer instead of the rest of their student group’s rather lackluster professor...but Sebastien wasn’t heading toward a classroom.

Which meant he was doing something interesting enough to make him late for class.

Damien only hesitated for a few seconds. He settled his leather satchel on his shoulder and, without taking his eyes off Sebastien, told his friends, “I’ve got something to do. I’ll see you later.”

They questioned him, but he was already walking away, a rude maneuver that he’d seen Sebastien do more than once to anyone that didn’t meet his standards for intelligent conversation. In his own way, Sebastien was just as arrogant as any member of the Crowns, despite the way he seemed to look down on all of them.

Sebastien was in such a hurry that he knocked into Canelo, their female student liaison, but luckily she was too busy reading a spelled letter from someone else to punish him.

As she passed Damien a few seconds later, he heard her whisper viciously, “By all the greater hells! How am I supposed—” She clenched her teeth, glaring at the paper as she continued to read.

Damien continued on without stopping. Her problems were none of his business. Which wouldn’t normally have stopped him from being nosy in the name of chivalry, but he had something more interesting to focus on at the moment.

He walked lightly into the dorms, stopping in front of Sebastien’s cubicle. He watched as Sebastien stuffed what Damien recognized as components that could be used in divination into his wooden chest. But Sebastien wasn’t taking a divination class. Damien knew he was taking one, and he’d never seen Sebastien there.

Sebastien’s head suddenly whipped around to him.

Damien catalogued the micro-expressions on Sebastien’s face. Shock, fear, dismay, and anger.

Sebastien controlled his response with impressive speed, but Damien had been trained for social warfare his whole life, and had been honing his detective skills, on top of that. Being able to read what a suspect or witness wasn’t saying aloud was critical to solving a case.

Sebastien slammed his wooden chest closed. “What do you want, Westbay? Shouldn’t you be getting to class?” he asked irritably.

Damien considered admitting that he’d followed Sebastien out of curiosity, but that would make Sebastien even more wary of scrutiny. Damien’s eyes caught on the stack of magazine periodicals he’d lent Sebastien sitting atop his bedside table, so he made up some nonsense about skipping class out of laziness to chat about the latest installment featuring Aberford Thorndyke, consulting detective.

He was almost disappointed when Sebastien didn’t find that suspicious. Did he really believe Damien to be so vapid? Sure, he wasn’t a genius powerhouse who could cast healing spells without any components, or impress the notorious Thaddeus Lacer enough to become the man’s apprentice, but he was one of the best students in their class—and powerful and rich, moreover!

Sebastien was halfway through an equally inane response when something caught his attention. His words cut off and he stared into the air with what might have been surprise, or alarm. It was as if he’d suddenly remembered something of critical importance. Coming back to reality, he rushed to get rid of Damien, literally pulling his curtain closed in Damien’s face.

Rude. Damien glared at the curtain for a couple seconds, then walked toward the dormitory doors, making sure to stride a little louder with anger. He heard the tell-tale sounds of Sebastien removing something from his chest and smirked to himself.

Damien would bet his entire monthly allowance that Sebastien was about to cast a divination spell. Likely the same spell he’d been casting in secret on one of the upper floors of the University’s Citadel.

Damien stopped just around the corner toward the bathrooms and waited as class started without him. His patience and foresight were rewarded only a couple minutes later as Sebastien hurried out of their dorm room and then out of the building. He didn’t notice Damien, and Damien almost didn’t notice him.

Sebastien was casting some kind of stealth spell. It didn’t make him invisible, simply unremarkable. Enough so that if Damien hadn’t been on full alert, filled with excitement, he might have disregarded Sebastien’s exit and kept waiting for him indefinitely.

Damien couldn’t hold back a giddy grin. “This is just like the Case of the Unwatched Watchman!” he muttered. Leaving almost a hundred meters between them so Sebastien wouldn’t notice the tail, he followed the other young man all the way to Eagle Tower, where Sebastien hesitated at the edge of the tree line for a few seconds before hiding his student token and striding through the front doors.

Damien dropped off his own token with rising excitement, then tried to seem as assured and confident in his right to be inside Eagle Tower as Sebastien had.

Sebastien had obviously never been in Eagle Tower before, because Damien found him stymied before the locked door of the stairwell. Damien hesitated, but decided it would be more entertaining—and less likely to make Sebastien angry—if he stopped sneaking around and honestly inserted himself into whatever Sebastien was doing.

Damien had taken a tour of the place with Professor Lacer when he was younger, so he knew that they had special tokens to access the stairwell and central tower rooms.

Serendipitously, he saw one such metal token lying abandoned on a desk in an empty side office. Security measures were often made useless due to human carelessness. He looked back and forth to make sure he wasn’t being watched, then slipped it into his pocket. Even if it was technically mischief, a Westbay was unlikely to get in serious trouble. His Family donated thousands of crowns to the University every year, after all.

Damien walked up behind Sebastien, who was still staring at the door, then reached past and opened it for him.

Sebastien stared down at him, nonplussed. “Westbay.”

A little awkwardly, Damien explained the door-pass. He wasn’t used to fumbling like this, not even with his father. Not anymore at least.

Sebastien stared at him until Damien felt like his skin was being metaphorically peeled away so the other boy could see his insides.

With continuing uncharacteristic gracelessness, Damien confessed to his curious snooping. “I thought maybe you could use some backup?” he finished hopefully, trying not to make it obvious how tight the obvious rejection in Sebastien’s gaze made his chest. Sebastien had kept whatever this was a secret so far, probably because he didn’t really trust Damien, and didn’t consider him a real friend. “Don’t worry. No one saw me, and I dropped my student token under the same tree you did,” Damien added.

If Damien had a chance, he was sure he could prove that he could be useful when he was included. He could be a good ally to Sebastien. He knew how to keep his mouth shut and keep them both out of trouble. He could be fun.

Sebastien just kept staring at him, and even though Damien knew this tactic, making the other person uncomfortable with silence until they started talking to fill it and gave up their conversational leverage while doing so…he still couldn’t help speaking, as if he felt it would create a barrier between him and that black-eyed gaze.

But he only ended up making Sebastien more upset by prying into proprietary family magic knowledge.

Damien was worried Sebastien was about to either send him away or call the whole thing—whatever it was—off entirely, when an upper term student walked down the stairwell, and suddenly Damien had the chance to save the day by diffusing any suspicion and sending the man on his way grateful to have bumped into them.

Sebastien eyed him with reluctant appreciation. “Useful,” he admitted.

Damien grinned, bursting with satisfaction, but tried to be humble about it. “Thank you. The name does come in handy sometimes. Now why are we here?”

“No questions. In fact, don’t talk at all,” Sebastien replied.

That only made Damien more curious, but at the same time felt somehow more satisfying. He was intelligent and observant enough to figure it out on his own.

Sebastien waved imperiously for Damien to open the door for him.

Without thinking, Damien started to ask where they were going, but cut himself off with a smile.

“You’re an idiot,” Sebastien said.

Damien’s first reaction was immediate anger at the insult, but he quickly reminded himself who he was dealing with. Sebastien Siverling’s tongue was almost as caustic as Professor Lacer’s, and insults tripped from it seemingly without conscious thought or even intent to offend. Yet, Sebastien had accepted him as a partner on this little adventure, and Damien could see a spark of amusement in his eyes. Sebastien’s real friends would have to understand not to take his words to heart and instead recognize the intention beneath them. Still, Damien didn’t want to seem like a pandering pushover. “And you’re a porcupine,” he muttered.

Sebastien didn’t respond, and Damien had a small epiphany. Were the minor insults, perhaps, not meant to be offensive? Was bickering Sebastien’s version of friendly banter?

Damien nodded to himself when Sebastien wasn’t looking. Yes, Sebastien may have been a genius with somewhat poor social skills, but the young man also had an interest in detective stories, a grueling work ethic, and a hidden kind interior that led him to heal Damien at risk to himself, offer advice to Alec—who he hated—and let students whose names Damien was sure Sebastien couldn’t even remember listen in when Sebastien tutored him and Ana.

In fact, Sebastien was probably pretty lonely. Except for Ana and Damien, he ate alone, studied alone, and snuck around doing exciting things…alone. The only other person he’d seen Sebastien talking to of his own free will for longer than sixty seconds was their student liaison Newton Moore. It was sad, really.

Damien couldn’t get angry at Sebastien for not being properly socialized. It must be hard to get along with other people as the only genius growing up in a small rural city like Vale. It must have been stifling, and probably part of what had caused Sebastien to grow such a prickly exterior. If he was poor, jealousy at the good fortunes of everyone around him might have played a part too, petty as that would be. Even geniuses could be petty.

Damien’s contemplation ended when they finally stopped on the fourth floor of the tower. A team of coppers with three prognos were casting a divination spell on the University’s spell array. That only happened when their own array wasn’t powerful enough.

Sebastien was sneaking in to watch the coppers in an active investigation! It couldn’t have been more perfect if Damien had come up with the idea himself.

Sebastien quickly led him into an empty side office, completely unnoticed.

Damien was jealous of that stealth spell, his heart pounding as he scurried to follow, hoping none of the coppers or professors would see him and give them both away. Inside, they peeked out the window onto the spellcasters. Who, or what, was their target? Damien realized he’d murmured his thoughts aloud, but Sebastien remained silent. Damien smoothed his hair back, trying to regain his cool composure. “I have a spell that can enhance hearing. Maybe we could…listen in?”

Sebastien’s interest in the question was enough answer for Damien, and he quickly set up the spell his brother had taught him as a reward for scoring so high on the University entrance exams. “They’re chanting. For the spellcasting. It’s advanced. I haven’t heard anything like it.”

When he heard the words, “Raven Queen,” he understood why the normally rule-abiding boy would sneak out for this. “They’re scrying for her...right now?” It was the case of the decade, if not the century, and they had a chance to watch her be found in person! If only they could be there for the arrest as well…

Sebastien was looking at him speculatively, and just as his lips twitched as if he were about to tell Damien something, movement at the door to the room drew his attention away.

With disappointment, Damien followed his gaze to their student liaison, Canelo. Her short, dirty blonde hair was windswept and her cheeks flushed.

She’d obviously arrived in a hurry, but after checking the time, she returned to the stairs and kept going up.

Damien pitied her. She didn’t know what she was missing out on.

He focused on Sebastien, hoping he would continue with whatever he’d been about to say before her arrival, but instead sirens went off, so loud to Damien’s enhanced hearing that it felt like a blow. It was the alarm for danger of a magical nature, and a warning for everyone to take shelter.

It was the worst possible timing. The divination spell would have to be stopped and started again from scratch when it was safe again, and they might not have a chance to watch at that time. “Again? It hasn’t even been two weeks since the last one. This is terrible timing. They can’t keep casting during a citywide emergency. I’m sure they would have caught her otherwise. There’s a shelter in the first basement level. We’ll have to join them.” It could have been worse, though. “Hey, maybe they’ll talk about the investigation. We might learn something interesting.”

When he moved to join the evacuation, Sebastien stopped him, but after a moment of hesitation, stepped back. “Nevermind. Go ahead, then,” Sebastien said.

Damien’s eyes narrowed. “Are you not coming?”

“I have something to do, first.”

“I’m staying too, then.”

“Whatever set those sirens off could be anywhere. It might not be safe. I would wager the University has a higher incidence of Aberrants than the rest of the city. So many thaumaturges in a relatively small area. You should know the numbers. Your Family runs the coppers, right?”

Sebastien was right, but the University buildings were all quite sturdy, and the professors were the best in their fields, skilled enough to quickly deal with the things that could have caused the alarm. “I’m not going to miss out on this. The curiosity would kill me. Unless you promise to tell me what you find?”

“I promise.”

Damien wanted to hit him. “You’re lying. You’ll just pretend you didn’t find anything interesting if I don’t come along and see it with my own two eyes. Otherwise you would have brought me in on whatever this is from the beginning.” He sniffed, looking away.

Sebastien was too oblivious to apologize, and worse than that, acted like Damien was the one in the wrong. We’re not friends, Westbay, and I’ve yet to see you do anything useful except throw your Family’s name around. I had no reason to bring you in on this.”

The sudden pang of hurt caused by those words quickly morphed into anger. “Oh, so you knew about the door-pass tokens? You had a handy spell to eavesdrop on what they were saying? I may not be a once-in-a generation prodigy, but you shouldn’t underestimate me. I’m staying.” Damien crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the other boy.

They snuck out into the empty hallway, peeking in the windows of the divination room. Damien wondered how long it would take him to be proficient enough to cast such a powerful spell, if he ever could. As a human, he had no natural talent in divination, and his father didn’t even approve of him taking the class, but he had the passion, at least. He hoped the University didn’t crush him to the point he had to drop electives in upcoming terms.

He was so focused on the tantalizing room within that when the door to the stairwell slammed open, he jumped. He might have let out a small squeak, too.

“What are you two doing here?” Canelo demanded.

“Didn’t you hear the sirens? Why haven’t you evacuated?” she asked.

Sebastien was not the person for this job, Damien knew. Damien was the smooth-talker, the one with influence. He had to take the lead here. He stepped forward, trying to emulate his brother’s easy authority. “We heard the sirens. We were in the Menagerie when they went off, and we ran, but it still took us a while to get back. Eagle Tower is the first building we came to, but everyone was already gone when we got here. We’re trying to find the shelter.”

Canelo walked toward them, moving slowly and silently, like a large cat. “It’s underground. Like all the shelters.” Her tone indicated that they were idiots.

Damien knew she wasn’t stupid. The reason they were up here was obvious, and probably the same reason she was there. He gave her a deadpan look, letting the side of his mouth twitch up in a tiny, tiny smirk, just enough to show that he knew she was in on the joke. “Really? I thought it would be on the top floor. That’s where they keep the weapons, right?”

She either didn’t notice his subtlety, or decided to shove right through it, rolling her eyes. “Are you qualified to fight against something powerful enough to warrant the sirens? If not, you should be sheltering underground with everyone else. You may be a Westbay, but you’re only a firstie. Getting greedy for glory will only get you killed.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Come on, we need to go.”

“I’m not greedy for glory,” Damien muttered. He didn’t know why people liked to accuse him of that, as if he were some sort of attention-hound. Compared to Alec and Rhett, he was positively unassuming. He enjoyed being liked, being noticed, but he didn’t need it.

Canelo grabbed Sebastien’s arm and tugged. “Come on. If you’re not both in the shelters within the next sixty seconds, I’m giving you both a demerit,” she said waspishly.

Then it started.

At first, Damien thought Sebastien was casting a spell.

He turned to the platinum-haired boy like a fish swimming through honey, the world slowed around him. Sebastien wasn’t casting anything, not even his stealth spell, but there was a blade-like intent in his expression that Damien had never seen before.

Sebastien slammed into him, forcing him to stumble forward into a doorway.

Canelo tried to get through, too, and ended up blocking the way.

That’s when something slammed them off their feet, and then the ceiling exploded.

Damien fell under Sebastien and didn’t even try to move. Sebastien was still alive—Damien could feel his heartbeat and his breath over Damien’s head.

He tried to listen for other movement, in case whatever had just destroyed the floor above them was creeping around looking for survivors.

Sebastien climbed off of him, a knee pressing painfully into Damien’s kidney.

Beside him, Canelo climbed to her hands and knees, coughing and retching. She had a distinctive scar on her forearm, but covered it self-consciously when Sebastien looked at it

Damien looked to Sebastien curiously.

The other boy seemed more interested in the scar than the explosion and possible danger, and suddenly, Damien realized how strange it was that Canelo had been on the floor above right before the explosion. In fact, it seemed like she’d gone there purposefully, just before the sirens went off. Almost as if she knew when they were going to sound, forcing an evacuation and leaving her alone.

“Are you both alright?” Canelo asked.

Damien lifted a thumb, his mind too occupied trying to digest the huge boulder of suspicion to talk.

“No serious injuries. We need to move. Whatever caused that could still be around,” Sebastien said.

Damien accepted Sebastien’s hand and climbed to his feet. He covered his face with his scarf, suddenly less worried about the whatever had caused the explosion and more worried about Canelo. He moved to stand beside Sebastien, keeping his eyes on the woman.

Canelo shook her head, shouting past her sleeve, “The floor above was being used for some alchemy experiments. They must not have properly settled and stored whatever they were working on, and it exploded. But the fumes could be hazardous, and the ceiling might not be sound any more. It could still fall on us.”

“No breathing, no getting crushed by falling stones,” Damien muttered sardonically, choking on dust. Canelo seemed a little too sure about the cause of the explosion, in his opinion, which only enforced his growing suspicion. “Got it.” He waved for Canelo to lead the way down to the shelter. When her back was turned, he looked questioningly to Sebastien, but was ignored.

Down in the shelter below, Canelo deflection the suspicions of the others off of their heads and onto the people who’d been working on the fifth floor before the sirens.

Sebastien moved to the wall and sat against it, something dark and cold swimming behind those eyes, like a kraken in deep waters.

Damien slid down beside him, his own thoughts more than enough to occupy him. He ran through his memories, trying to piece together the clues that he must have missed at the time.

Tanya Canelo wasn’t, in general, suspicious. She was capable, trusted enough by the faculty to be a student aid, and the kind of person whose competence was assuring, rather than intimidating like it could be in someone like Sebastien. She was rather handsome for a woman, but not attractive enough to gain favors. She was from a better family than some who managed to get in, enough so that her University contribution points didn’t go into tuition or items that could be sold right back for gold crowns to keep their family from starving. Not a good enough family that she could be assured of a nice position after leaving the University, though. No, she still had to work for everything she got.

But Sebastien had known better.

Damien had thought Sebastien was sneaking into Eagle Tower for a bit of fun, but that hadn’t been it at all. No, Sebastien was doing something much more serious, more dangerous, and more ridiculously…wonderful. And it made sense why he’d been so frustrated and adamant about getting Damien to leave. Not because he didn’t trust Damien, or disliked him so much he couldn’t stand to spend a few minutes sneaking around with him, but because Damien had no idea what was going on and might have caused real problems. The kind that just the word of a Westbay couldn’t get them out of.

Damien knew this must be the kind of serious thing that he really shouldn’t be excited about—and people might think something was dangerously wrong with him if he started grinning like a loon while sheltering from rogue magic—so he suppressed the urge to display his suddenly roiling emotions. He returned to his deductions with a serious face.

Sebastien had been doing some kind of advanced divination, and that had led him to the Eagle Tower at the exact time the coppers were searching for the Raven Queen—when Canelo came in to sabotage the attempt.

The spelled letter Canelo had gotten? That had been a clue. One that Sebastien had noticed, even if Damien didn’t. That was what Sebastien’s sudden moment of realization in the dorms had been, when he rushed Damien to leave and went after Canelo.

Who had it been from? Someone who knew what the coppers were doing at the University? Someone who could set off false rogue magic alarms?

Damien pulled his knees up to his chest, suppressing a gasp of realization. Canelo had looked at the clock, just before going upstairs, and then she hid until the tower was clear. She’d known.

His heart was pounding in his chest, and he controlled his breathing, patting back his filthy, dust-coated hair with a slightly shaky hand .

Sebastien had noticed Canelo’s scar. Why was that important? In the detective stories, a distinctive scar like that was often the clue to finding an otherwise unidentifiable suspect or lead. Sebastien had recognized the scar…but he had been surprised to see it on Canelo. So either Sebastien had previously come across her when she was disguised and remembered the distinctive mark, or he recognized the weapon that had implemented the injury. Damien withheld from guessing the details without a better foundation.

Except, he did know that Sebastien had been missing from the dorms the same weekend the Raven Queen had made her latest appearance. Where had Canelo been that night? Had Sebastien been following her?

There were likely other clues that Damien had no way of knowing. Without Sebastien being forthright with him, he couldn’t know the details, but some things were clear enough through the fog.

Canelo was either the Raven Queen, which seemed unlikely for multiple reasons, unless her entire identity was some sort of deep cover, a foreign agent infiltrating the University…or she was working with the Raven Queen in some capacity. She’d protected the Raven Queen from being caught. It could have been as innocuous as Canelo being blackmailed or threatened into it.

And Sebastien? He was investigating the Raven Queen, searching for her on his own. That was why he’d been so interested in the case. Damien supposed Sebastien could be interested in catching her simply for his interest in detective work, and in some ways that fit Sebastien’s personality—curiosity like a raging fire, never satisfied—but somehow it didn’t feel right.

Damien remembered Sebastien’s shitty Conduit. There was no way that thing could channel all of Sebastien’s Will. Sebastien may be from a rural city like Vale, but he was far from a commoner. Except, when Damien had first met him, hadn’t Damien insulted Sebastien for wearing a suit that was too big for him and in an outdated style, besides? He’d wondered about the Siverlings’ monetary situation before, but unlike Sebastien, Damien knew enough about tact not to pry. Damien smoothed down his collar, barely even bothered by the dirt crusting itself into his skin, settling under his nails and turning to tiny balls of mud in the corners of his eyes.

Either Sebastien’s family was punishing him, someone was purposely suppressing him and his growth opportunities, or they simply didn’t have the resources to provide better. Could it be, somehow, that Sebastien’s family had fallen on hard times? Perhaps they’d put all of their wealth into their genius scion, cultivating him with the last of their resources in the hopes that he could restore them to their former glory? Or perhaps an uncle or a step-parent was afraid that Sebastien would grow up and usurp them. He would need to look up the Siverlings.

If it were true—and there wasn’t some even more outrageous reason behind all this that Damien had missed, like Sebastien being an undercover agent for the Red Guard—then Sebastien was looking for the Raven Queen to get the reward. It was up to five hundred gold crowns by now. More than enough for a better Conduit.

The third option was that Sebastien was doing it for the glory, the recognition. To prove something, or get some sort of revenge. That, too, was something that fit Sebastien’s character.

Damien looked at his classmate, who was still obliviously consumed by his own dark thoughts. Normally, he would have taken information like this directly to his older brother Titus. But if Sebastien found out he’d done that, it might destroy any chance of them ever becoming real allies. Sebastien was either going to die young or make something of himself, something great, like Titus or Professor Lacer.

Like Damien wished he had the talent for. He might not be like them, but he didn’t need to be, exactly, if he could stand beside them and hold their respect. Power came in many forms.

The whole thing being terribly fascinating was merely an additional benefit.

Would Sebastien be terribly offended if Damien offered him a better Conduit? He could probably get one of the Family ones that Titus had outgrown. Of course, anyone who noticed the Westbay seal would think Sebastien was a vassal to the Westbays, which seemed like just the kind of thing Sebastien would hate, so perhaps that idea wouldn’t work.

Damien wasn’t sure whether concern or excitement were forefront in his pounding chest, but he knew one thing for certain. Sebastien would need help, and Damien was the perfect person to give it. He’d just have to convince Sebastien of that.

A note from AzaleaEllis

This chapter was previously missing.

I apologize. I really thought I posted this chapter the Thursday before last, but maybe I forgot to hit "publish chapter" afterward. I didn't notice that it was missing because the chapter title auto-populates as one I've "already used" when I go to post a new chapter, even though it didn't actually post successfully. In any case, you clever readers found a way around it by going to my website instead, but that was not intentional on my part.

Chapter 53 - Through a Glass Darkly

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 17, Thursday 11:30 a.m.

When they were released from the shelter, Sebastien ignored the stares of the other students who were wondering what had happened to her and Westbay to become so dirty and disheveled during a rogue magic alarm. She took a thorough shower, retrieved her student token and secret library pass, then returned to the Citadel in time to catch the last bit of Sympathetic Science, which was useless since Professor Pecanty was as distracted as the rest of the students.

Westbay was uncharacteristically silent through the rest of the day, though he kept sending Sebastien searching looks.

As soon as Fekten’s grueling Defense class was over, Sebastien wiped down with a damp towel, changed back into her high-class suit, jacket, and scarf, and left for the city below. She put a small smile on her face, not enough to be obvious, but enough to make her seem without a care. In her own mind, it was just a prelude to baring her teeth in a defensive snarl.

She didn’t go straight to Oliver’s house. She didn’t even head in the same direction, and she kept going past the strictly upscale part of the city. She wasn’t trained to recognize a tail, but she could follow common-sense tactics like taking a winding route, suddenly doubling back to surprise anyone trying to seem normal, and peeking in the reflections of glass shop windows to see if she could catch anyone watching her.

She stopped well before arriving at the Mires and made a loop back around to Dryden Manor, all without seeing anything particularly suspicious. People noticed her, as Sebastien, but no one did more than stare for a couple seconds too long. Even so, her Conduit never left her hand. It rolled around inside her grip, which was sweaty despite the cold.

She walked straight in through Oliver’s front door.

A male servant bowed lightly to her. “Welcome, Mr. Siverling. Mr. Dryden isn’t in at the moment…”

“When will he be back?” she asked, unraveling her scarf from around her neck and stamping her boots on the welcome mat.

“I’m not sure…”

Sharon hustled out from the kitchen before the man could finish. “Sebastien! Welcome! Are you hungry?”

Sebastien smiled as genuinely as she could despite her anxiety. “No, thank you. I’m going up to my room to wait for Mr. Dryden. Please let him know I’m here when he arrives.” Without waiting for a response, she hurried up the stairs.

Sharon called after her that she would be bringing tea and refreshments.

Once Sebastien was alone in “her” room, she pushed up her sleeve to reveal the series of thin wooden bracelets on her wrist.

After the fiasco the last time, when Oliver had set off the linked alarm on the bracelet and sent her fleeing from her dorms in the middle of the night, she’d taken a few spare moments to create more. Each was wrapped with a small section of colored thread. Different colors for different messages, still almost as simple as could be.

Grabbing one delicate bracelet near the weak metal bead that kept it together, she pulled, breaking it apart. Oliver’s own linked bracelet would grow cold, indicating that he should return to his house immediately.

Each bracelet was single-use, but if you were having such frequent emergencies that you didn’t have time to create replacements between them, you had bigger problems.

Sebastien didn’t simply sit back and wait for Oliver.

She fell to her hands and knees and crawled under the bed, retrieving the ancient book from its hiding spot. There were no signs that it had been disturbed since the last time she retrieved it.

‘How much do Tanya and whoever she’s working with know about me? Is there any information that could have leaked?’ There were several possible ways someone could have learned to be suspicious of Sebastien. Anyone who knew Oliver’s identity, and his connection to either Siobhan or Sebastien could have given away clues. ‘Could his connection to me have been somehow related to the attack on the warehouse? Am I even sure that he’s safe right now? He has his own bracelets, to alert me to an emergency, but if something happened to him, what could I even do?’

She opened the book and flipped through it quickly. It was its same as ever—frustrating and indecipherable.

‘Don’t panic. Be logical. What Tanya did today doesn’t mean they actually know anything about me. So why would someone do that? Why might someone—the Morrows?—not want the Crowns to find me?’ She could think of too many possibilities, but all of them seemed ludicrous, like something out of one of Damien’s stories. Anarchists that held a grudge against the established powers. Someone who knew what was in the book and didn’t want the Crowns getting their hands on it. Someone who was using this event as a decoy to commit another crime while diverting suspicion to the Raven Queen.

Even Oliver could have sent Tanya, and Sebastien might have suspected him if she hadn’t seen the scar on the other girl’s forearm. Oliver would never have placed his employees in danger with that attack on the warehouse. The Morrows were Tanya’s most likely allies.

‘But why would the Morrows want to stop the Raven Queen from being caught by the Crowns? If they have a motive, I don’t know what it could be.’

She realized then that it might not be the Morrows at all, or not directly. ‘There is someone with a motive, as well as the means. I don’t know why, but judging by the aura of hostility, the University has some reason not to want the coppers to find me. What if that’s why Tanya was there? But if she’s working for someone at the University, how is she also connected to the Morrows?’

Sebastien had to push the stolen book back under the bed when someone knocked on the door. She opened it to find Sharon on the other side with a tea tray, cookies and snacks, and a worried expression.

Sharon bustled in, setting up the tea tray on the table beside the bed. “Everyone has heard how difficult the University is,” she said, her tone failing to be conversational, just a little too gentle and conciliatory.

“Yes, the workload is crushing,” Sebastien agreed, resisting the urge to fidget in her desire for the woman to leave. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Sharon stepped back from the table and pushed a cup of tea into Sebastien’s hands, guiding her to sit on the edge of the bed. “Sometimes, when we feel overwhelmed by a problem, it’s best to step back and look at if from a different angle. Find out what you can pare away, what’s not absolutely critical, and then cut the rest down into manageable chunks. Be kind to yourself, Sebastien. If you aren’t, who will be?” She patted Sebastien’s hand like one might a dog’s head, then left the room, closing the door gently behind herself.

Sebastien chugged the tea, ignoring the burning sensation as it scalded her mouth and throat and hit her stomach like a fist. She stared at the loose leaves in the bottom of the cup for a few seconds, then let out a long breath and retrieved the stolen book from under the bed again.

‘Sharon may have no idea what’s going on, but she’s not wrong. Wild theories won’t help me. I have very little real evidence with which to work, but at least I have a direction to investigate.’

She placed the book on the marble floor and stared at it. “What are you?” she whispered. She knew its secrets might hold the key to all her problems. If only she could unravel them. “Why are they searching for you so desperately? How does the amulet do this to me? Who created you?”

The book didn’t respond, of course.

She knelt down, pulled her alchemy athame out of her bag, and began to peel back the leather wrapping of the outer cover, where she had first seen the edge of the space-bending array that contained the transformation amulet. She was gentle, but ruthless as she took the book apart like one might dissect a corpse, searching for any hint of its origins, purpose, or the magic that powered it. If she could find a spell array, even if she couldn’t solve the key to its lock, she might still be able to break it with precisely applied force.

But it was just a book.

If not for its contents, it might even have seemed an ordinary book.

Suppressing her seething frustration, she put the book back together, then performed a simple mending spell on it, using some glue and a couple strips of leather as components. When she was finished, it looked good as new.

‘Tanya is likely to be much more powerful than me. It’s honestly amazing that a fourth-term student was able to almost collapse an entire warehouse by herself. Unless she was using an artifact.’ Sebastien tried to remember, but for once her memory failed her. There had been too much going on in the dark, with the storm and the screaming and the fighting, and she had been too full of adrenaline to pay close attention.

Bringing her hands to her chest, thumbs to her middle fingers, she brought her Will to bear on the idea of stretching out her muscles and relaxing her body like it was a coiled spring. A few minutes of deep humming later, she had broken the vicious cycle of her body causing anxiety to her thoughts and her thoughts filling her body with fight-or-flight chemicals. ‘Newton’s gift of knowledge is becoming increasingly useful,’ she mused. ‘I owe him.’ It was only too bad that the effects were so temporary.

Still, with her body and mind calm, a piece of positivity rose to the surface. The reverse-scrying spell based off sympathetic divination had worked.

There were other potential applications for that. Her original idea had been to find a way to remove or destroy the coppers’ sample of her blood once she pinpointed its location, but today had shown that even if she knew where it was, she couldn’t necessarily do much about that.

But her success with sympathetic divination reminded her that other kinds of sympathetic magic were also an option. ‘Would it be possible to remotely destroy any lost piece of myself that could be used to cast sympathetic spells affecting me?’ If she could do that, not only would she solve her biggest current problem, but she would never have to worry about missing a strand of hair or leaving her toothbrush out again.

Sympathetic magic worked through the impression that different items or ideas, were, in fact, the same, and so should display the same characteristics and effects. With many spells, this was forced through Sacrifice.

For instance, a transmogrification spell that took the idea of “death” and “doused fire” from a pinch of ash and forcefully applied it to a man to curse him with impotence. Or, using duplicative transmogrification to copy a gold nugget from the matter of a brick, forcing the brick to become the gold in truth.

But when you had a piece of the original, it was even easier. The sympathetic connection was inherent. What was once a part of the whole always remained a part of the whole in some way, even once separated. It was easiest to do sympathetic magic with things you had a strong personal connection to, like long-term belongings—or pieces of your own body. However, the longer a piece of the whole was separated from the rest, and the more the sample’s state or that of the original changed, the less effective such magic became. This was especially true with living things.

For example, a branch taken from a tree could be used to find its parent when it was still fresh. Over time, the connection lessened. If the branch’s bark was peeled and it was turned into a walking stick, the connection would weaken. If the tree itself were cut down and turned into furniture, it would be a almost impossible to use the branch to find any of those pieces of furniture.

The coppers were using a stasis artifact, the evidence box, to keep her blood fresh, which would help them, but within ten years it would still become almost useless, as both time and change weakened her connection to it.

Of course, she couldn’t wait ten years. Turning into Sebastien didn’t seem to help, despite how much of a change it was. Or, perhaps it was helping and in fact the only thing keeping her safe.

If she were to leave the city, the power and skill required to find her at longer distances would be untenable. She would be unreachable. But there was only one Thaumaturgic University of Lenore, and it was in Gilbratha.

“But the reverse scry worked,” she repeated aloud. “I found my blood.”

She hadn’t considered the full possibilities of this sympathetic connection before because of the same inherent limitation she’d faced when trying to locate her blood without the reverse-scry. How did you distinguish between which pieces of the whole you wanted to affect with the spell and which you didn’t? By the very nature of sympathetic magic, they were all the same. If you wanted to curse someone using a piece of them, say to force them to spontaneously combust, you probably didn’t care if the piece you were using burnt up, too.

But she very much cared if she caught fire while trying to destroy the blood held by the coppers.

‘There has to be a way around that. With enough ingenuity and power, there is always a way.’

It might be possible if she could stay within wards that were stronger than whatever wards the coppers were using to protect her blood. Then someone outside both wards, maybe Liza, would try to break through, all unprotected pieces of Sebastien throughout the range of the spell would be destroyed, and the coppers wards would fall before Sebastien’s did. It would likely be more power-intensive than scrying over the same distance, but maybe Liza could handle it. Of course, as always with Liza, her fee would be crippling. An estimate of the work that would be involved in developing the spells for and setting up something like that made Sebastien wince.

Alternatively, maybe they could somehow bound the area of the sympathetic destruction. If they could draw a really, really large Circle while ensuring that it wasn’t broken or disrupted, they could enclose the entirety of a place like Harrow Hill Penitentiary within it. Then, a piece of Sebastien’s blood or hair could be used to destroy only the matching pieces within the Circle, overpowering or bypassing any wards. Hopefully. It was the same way the shedding-destroyer worked, only targeted to pieces of her rather than any human material. The problem with really large Circles was manyfold, though. They were conspicuous, easily disrupted by enemy forces or even coincidence, and the larger the area within the Circle, the harder it was to hold dominion over it with your Will. That plan would likely require joint-casting by multiple sorcerers who had been practicing the same spell together to avoid causing a disturbance in the flow of magic during spellcasting.

Lastly, the most promising idea. Perhaps she could use the same reverse-scrying application she had just proved worked to pinpoint a target for her destruction—just as she’d pinpointed a target for her search. It was likely that while being used to scry, her blood would be outside of whatever protective wards the coppers normally kept over it. The idea filled her with energy, but she knew that it, too, was unfeasible for the moment. Destroying her blood would require more power than simply locating it, and that kind of spell would require an even more divergent split of her attention while being scried. She couldn’t get it wrong, even once, so she would need to practice sympathetic curses on something else. In addition to her Conduit not being strong enough, her Will wasn’t strong enough, either.

Because of the sporadic timing of the coppers’ attempts to find her, it wasn’t as if she could just set up a time for Liza to catch their diviners in the act. Sebastien’s frustration was returning, but she tried to comfort herself. ‘It’s a viable solution. I may not have all I need to implement it, but I won’t always be so weak. I’m definitely going to need a better Conduit, though. This one is not acceptable.’ That was frustrating, because she truly could not afford better. If only she’d left Ennis to rot in jail instead of paying twice to contact him, maybe lack of funds wouldn’t be a problem.

At the very least, she wasn’t worried about the coppers using her blood to attempt to kill her. They desperately wanted the book, and if she died somewhere distant, out of their grasp, that could stop them from ever finding it. However, they could still curse her in other, more subtle ways. It was illegal, sure, but who knew if that would stop them if they got desperate? She would be warned, at least, because one of the spells in the medallion her grandfather gave her warded against curses, but it could obviously be overpowered.

She frowned. If the coppers ever knew exactly where she was, they could kill her remotely to stop her from escaping, and then take their chances finding the book through divination cast on her corpse. That, too, would be a move of desperation and idiocy, but she wouldn’t bet her life on them being calm and intelligent.

The sound of Oliver’s arrive below shook her from her thoughts. It had been little more than three quarters of an hour since she activated his bracelet’s alarm.

She hid the book, picked up the tea service tray, and walked to Oliver’s office, prepared to confess both her foolishness and what she had discovered. This was a threat to both of them, and she hoped she could count on his help. After all, she owed him, through the Verdant Stag, about a thousand gold. If he tossed her aside because of how much trouble she was, he would lose any chance of recovering that.

She stopped mid-step, swallowing with a sudden resurgence of apprehension. ‘That’s not entirely true. The reward for aiding in my capture is five hundred gold, now, and he could probably sell the book to the University for at least that much again. I suppose I just have to hope that he counts my future value higher than my immediate cost. He might seem softhearted, but he isn’t foolish.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

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Next chapter on my website https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-54-commission-to-investigate/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 54 - Commission to Investigate

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 17, Thursday 5:30 p.m.

Oliver stalked into his office a couple seconds behind Sebastien. His dark hair was windswept, his cheeks and nose red from the cold, and he was breathing hard. His eyes swept across the room and latched onto her, the question in them obvious.

Once the door was closed behind them and they were assured of privacy, she opened her mouth to speak but choked on the words. While he waited impatiently, she rubbed her tongue on the back of her teeth and formulated a coherent explanation.

“The coppers almost found me today,” she said finally. “They moved to the University to use the divination room in Eagle Tower.”

“Shit.”

“I wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t fully prepared,” she admitted. “I—I did a divination spell to find my blood, piggybacking on their own scrying spell, and managed to find them. I wanted to gather some information, so I went to peek a little—as Sebastien.”

Oliver stared at her her, nonplussed. “You went to peek. On the coppers actively scrying for you. You are aware that divination is more powerful at close range?” His tone was flat and incredulous.

“I thought the risk was worth it. The ward Liza made me has worked so well, I didn’t assume they’d be able to break past it easily. And they didn’t. They even had three prognos, and it took them a long while to ramp up to the level where it started getting dangerous for me. Still, I fully understand, it was a bad idea. I miscalculated. You don’t need to say it.”

He let out a puff of hair, rocking back on his heels. “You said almost caught. What happened?”

She straightened her shoulders, forcing stillness to settle in her bones. “My miscalculation brought about unexpected benefits. The female sorcerer who lead the attack on your warehouse is a third-term student at the University.”

His eyes narrowed, but she continued to the really shocking news. “She, or an accomplice of hers, more likely, set off the sirens earlier today while the coppers were in the middle of scrying for me. When everyone evacuated, she blew up the floor above the divination room. I assume to ensure they couldn’t continue their divination spell after the false alarm was revealed.”

“What.”

“Her name is Tanya Canelo.” The name sparked no recognition, so she continued. “She’s one of my student liaisons. I’m not sure how long it will take them to fix Eagle Tower, but unless they can find or set up another ultra-powerful divination spell array, I’m safe for the near future. Which, somehow, was her goal.”

Oliver stared at Sebastien for a moment, then brushed past to the liquor table at the corner of the room, pouring himself a glass. He offered Sebastien one.

Despite her abhorrence for sedatives in general, and liquor in particular, she accepted. It was disgusting, as she’d anticipated, but she welcomed the burn.

“Do you know what this means?” he asked.

“A University student is working for the Morrows, and has enough of an information network to do what she did today. They have more access than we do,” she replied immediately. “Alternatively, the University itself is working with the Morrows, and the information was easy to get because they’re one of the involved parties. If that’s the case, the Morrows might have much more access than we do. Also, someone doesn’t want the coppers to find me. I suspect that someone may be part of the University itself. Some of the professors seemed reluctant for the coppers to be there. They were on edge and distrustful. However, I don’t understand why they wouldn’t want the coppers to succeed.”

“Because they want to find you themselves,” Oliver said simply. “The University and the Crowns have always struggled with each other. The Crowns don’t want the University to grow so strong that it could be a threat to their rule, and the University wants access to unlimited control and resources. It’s in the nature of powerful thaumaturges to be ever hungry for more, and to chafe at the restrictions of ‘lesser men.’” He gave his drink a bitter grimace. “Both want to find you, and it seems they’re not keen that the other should do so first. The Morrows are aware of this. Even if they’re not working with the University, if the Morrows could apprehend you and the book, they could trade you for money and favors to either of the two most powerful factions in Gilbratha—the two most powerful factions in the whole of Lenore.”

It made sense. Today, it had worked in her favor, because either the Morrows or the University cared more about catching her themselves than that she was caught in general. But one thing didn’t make sense. “What’s so important that they would go to such lengths to catch me? It can’t just be the humiliation they’ve all suffered from my elusion. The book.” She reached up to the amulet hidden under her dress. “What is it? Have you heard any rumors? Someone must have said something that could explain why they’re doing this.”

“I don’t know what’s in the book, other than that convenient little trinket you’re wearing. Maybe there were other amulets, and they know you have one. I suppose they could be worried about spies or assassination, if they know what it can do, but you’re right,” he said, shaking his head. “If it was just that, it shouldn’t so matter so much who found you. There are surely politics at play that the two of us are not privy to. The coppers alone have already put several thousand gold into finding you. I estimate they burned a thousand on today’s attempt alone.”

“Thousands? On what?” Even the exorbitant reward for information leading to her capture was only five hundred gold crowns.

He tilted his head to the side with bemusement. “They have a whole investigation team focused on finding you. They’ve called in specialists. All those people have spent hundreds of hours gathering testimony and picking apart any crime scene they think might be remotely linked to you. They’ve been giving out bribes for information. But mostly, it’s the scrying attempts. Their spell must immediately relay enough information to capture you, after all, not just a simple direction or a vague location. The base energy cost for a robust divination spell with a clear output is higher. The power required increases based on the area covered multiplied by that base power requirement.”

“It’s a multiple?” she asked. It was common knowledge that divination, and all spells that reached outside the core Circle, got harder the farther you were away from your target. But she’d never seen a formula for how it worked with an area-effect spell like scrying for a target that matched your parameters. It wasn’t like shooting a fireball in a straight line. Scrying sent out invisible feelers in all directions gathering information. Her books had been rather vague about the actual mechanics.

Reading the lack of comprehension in her expression, Oliver set down his drink and pushed some clutter to the side of his desk to reveal a large map of Gilbratha with different colored zones, arrows, and notes scribbled all over it. “The power requirement increases exponentially, according to Caidan’s Theorem. The simplest divination spells with the most rudimentary outputs, like pointing a compass needle to a sympathetically-linked object or dousing for water, take about thirty thaums to cast even if you’re standing only three feet away from your target.”

He pointed out Dryden Manor, then used an graphite pencil to draw a one kilometer circle around it. “You can use one hundred meters as the base unit to measure diameter. Assuming you are casting the most simple divination spell at a base cost of thirty thaums, and your target is one kilometer away”—he paused to scribble a simple exponential equation next to the penciled circle—“it will cost you slightly less than sixty thaums for the spell to reach it. That’s per-second capacity, of course. Now, say your base spell costs a moderate one hundred fifty thaums to cast, which is a very conservative estimate for the copper’s attempt to locate and capture the Raven Queen. To search an area one kilometer in diameter they must spend…”

Sebastien understood the concept of exponents, but she didn’t have a lot of practice calculating them, especially ones that weren’t whole numbers. She muttered to herself, scribbling on an invisible paper with her fingers for a while, then whispered the answer. “Forty-seven hundred thaums per second, approximately.”

He gave her a slightly impressed smile and a nod. “This is with an unwarded target. Most wards against divination will multiply the difficulty from one-point-five to two times the overall cost. From what I understood from Liza, yours could, with enough aid from you, make things up to ten times more difficult for them.”

“That much?” Sebastien reached back to touch the skin over the uppermost disk inserted under the skin of her back. “She really could have applied for a Grandmastery in artificery with it.”

“Why did you think Liza was so expensive?”

“…Because people who come to her are desperate, and have no other options?”

He huffed at her in exasperation. “There are plenty of thaumaturges selling illegal services in Gilbratha, Sebastien. Liza is trustworthy, competent, and her skills are well-rounded. That is a difficult combination to find. But back to the point at hand, the coppers don’t know where you are exactly or how strong your wards are, and yet are still pouring resources into finding you. They must at least be prepared for their spell to reach the whole of Gilbratha and its outskirts, as well as overwhelm your wards. Do you see?” He scribbled another exponential equation with the higher base cost increasing the exponent accordingly. “Having the high ground will make things easier”—he crossed out the exponent and replaced it with a slightly smaller one—“but not enough.”

“That’s an area with a diameter of eight to twelve kilometers, if they’re constricting the search to the south rather than directly outward in a true Circle?” she asked. That math was a little too much to do in her head, but she understood the point. “At minimum, they were prepared to power that spell with over a hundred thousand thaums per second. At most, over two hundred thousand. I’m not sure even Archmage Zard could cast that spell alone, and he’s over a hundred years old. In fact, it seems likely that no one alive could do so. They had nine people joint-casting, so all of them must have at least been Masters with decades of experience to grow their capacities. Maybe even Grandmasters.”

She shook her head. “I was in the same building as them. Even with my ward, how could they have failed to find me?”

“They wouldn’t have been searching in a perfect circle, to conserve energy. Likely most of their efforts were directed downward and toward the south. You may have just been catching the edges.”

“So perhaps it was a good thing I went to spy on them, after all.”

“If so, only by coincidence, not intention.”

Sebastien conceded the point. “The cost of the components and beast cores alone…”

“Do not forget the hazard pay for joint-casting. Divination is one of the most dangerous crafts for a reason. And remember, they have attempted this multiple times, if not always with today’s fervor.”

Sebastien stared at the map, then met Oliver’s dark blue eyes. “They should give up. It’s foolish to keep wasting this level of resources, no matter how much they want to find me. They have to realize that divination isn’t effective on such a large scope.”

He shrugged. “Or perhaps this false alarm will instead encourage them, as they believe they forced a response from the Raven Queen who was in fear of being caught. And at such close distance, you likely were in danger of them overwhelming your defenses. Divination has its uses, and they have no way to know what they’re really up against. If today’s attempt had worked, the coppers would have spent one to two thousand gold to capture you, retrieve the book, and at the same time keep the University from doing so. It could be worth it.”

“You’re right. They have resources to burn, and at this point I’ve embarrassed them, too. It could even be a matter of principle to find me, no matter the tangible return on investment.”

“Perhaps.”

“Dryden Manor has wards against divination, right? Just in case there’s a piece of me left behind here…” She was thinking of the bloody thumbprint on her copies of the blood print vow made with Katerin and Liza.

“It does have basic wards, more than enough to shield against whatever small signals that random pieces of hair or whatever else might give to a scrying spell. Not strong enough to shield against them finding you yourself.”

She’d thought as much, but it was good to have reassurance.

Looking at the equation, she realized suddenly that her divination attempt, from the University, might never have worked to find her blood if it were actually at Harrow Hill Penitentiary, because it was too far. She’d read in one of the negligently vague divination books that having the high ground made scrying easier, but according to Oliver’s equation she would have needed to have a capacity of almost a thousand thaums to overcome the distance, even though her divination spell was much less costly than the coppers.’ Really, this only confirmed her earlier estimation that the whole craft was rather useless. If they were smart, perhaps they would try to break past her wards with a much simpler spell, and then immediately afterward cast something more robust to give them all the information they needed to actually catch her. “You’re quite knowledgeable about divination. Is that your area of expertise, then?” she asked.

He stared at her for a long few seconds.

She stared back and raised her eyebrows.

Oliver picked up his whiskey and moved to stand in front of his fireplace, gazing into it as if to avoid her. “No. My father was particularly interested in the craft. Not that it did him, or the rest of the family, any good.”

He sounded bitter, and she decided not to press the issue despite her sudden curiosity about his past. She hated when people tried to pry into her own childhood, after all. There were some things a person just wanted to forget about. “Do you have any idea why someone at the University might be working with the Morrows? Have there been any clues? Could it have anything to do with why they attacked your warehouse?” she asked instead.

“I don’t know, other than that if they’re working together, there must be something illegal involved. Maybe smuggling? The Morrows have contacts in that area, and territory in the docks. It would make sense if the University is feeling suppressed by the Crowns’ recent increase on restrictions for magical imports. Why the Morrows would attack my warehouse seems less to do with the Raven Queen and more likely to be because they don’t appreciate me encroaching on their business or territory. But I don’t know.” He sounded almost as frustrated as her, and with a sudden, violent motion, he dashed his glass of whiskey into the fireplace.

The glass shattered and the flames roared higher for a moment.

Sebastien jumped and tensed, but as Oliver stared darkly into the greedy flames, she felt herself perversely calming at the signs of his anxiety. “I think we’re safe,” she said, sitting down a chair closer to him. “Or at least not in immediate danger,” she amended as he turned to her with an incredulous look. “All we can do now is prepare for the future with the information we’ve been given.” She swallowed the remainder of the amber liquid in her own whisky glass. “Step one? We need more information.”

He nodded. “Knowledge is power.”

“As is magic.”

“Well, we don’t have enough of either at the moment.”

As much as it rankled her, he was right. “Should I start watching Tanya Canelo, then? Secretly, of course.”

“Yes, her and anyone associated with her. Please avoid recklessness. If she finds out you are spying on her, things could go very badly for the both of us. You might need help. Unfortunately, I’m not sure how to provide you with it. I don’t have anyone else within the University. Not anyone we can trust, at least. Have you noticed anything suspicious surrounding your identity as Sebastien? Do you suspect she knows who you are?”

Sebastien admitted to herself that she was barely keeping up with her current tasks. She had no time to add any sort of meaningful surveillance on Tanya. She rubbed the edge of her empty glass, listening to the crystalline ring it gave off as she achieved just the right angle and amount of friction. “I haven’t noticed anything. She did seem abnormally interested in me when we first met, but I thought it was just because of the way I got admitted. Since then she’s acted…normal. And as for help on the inside…”

She grimaced, knowing Oliver wouldn’t react well to what came next. “Damien Westbay was with me when Canelo pulled her trick. We weren’t wearing our student tokens, but we were seen, and we sheltered with everyone else in Eagle Tower’s underground attachment. If they’re investigating, and there are records of everyone who was there, it might seem suspicious that we weren’t logged by the building’s wards. I don’t think that’ll be an issue, and it’s definitely not incriminating by itself, but Westbay… He may have connected some of the dots. About her, I mean, not about me. If he did, I’m not sure what he might do with the information. Might it be possible to use that, somehow? Perhaps we could further pit the coppers—and the Crowns—against the University, keeping them both distracted.”

Oliver sat down opposite her. “One of the Crown Family scions was with you during this reckless stunt? That’s the kind of relevant information I’d like to receive a little earlier in the conversation,” he said, his voice hard with strain.

She straightened her shoulders, tilting her chin up. “There was a lot of relevant information. The other stuff seemed more important. And then you distracted me with the divination equations.”

He gave her an irritated look, but said, “I’m not sure you want to draw the coppers in right away. Not until we have a better understanding of the situation. There could be a better play.”

“What if he wants to talk? To them, I mean?”

“You must find a way to dissuade him. Find out what he knows, and what he wants, not just in the short term but more intrinsically, and then guide his actions.” Oliver leaned back, idly rolling his sleeves up past his forearms while he thought. “Damien Westbay doesn’t have a particularly close relationship with his father, from what I’ve observed, but the opposite is true of his older brother, who is currently running the coppers. Use that to your advantage, if you can. Hint at things that might mislead him. Stall, if that’s all you can do. I’ll be working on gathering information on my end, too. I might be able to find out who set off the false alarm, and I’m going to be digging into any possible connection between the University and the Morrows. If it comes to it, perhaps he could be useful to set the coppers against them and relieve some of the pressure on us.”

Social maneuvering was not Sebastien’s strong suit, but surely she could figure it out if she put her mind to it. She nodded stiffly. “Westbay has seemed rather interested in ingratiating himself to me. Do you think it would be too dangerous to make it known that I prefer this all to be kept a secret for the moment?”

“Oh? Is he only interested in gaining your alliance, or is he trying to engender a friendship?”

She rubbed the back of her teeth with her tongue, running through her memories with Westbay and trying to catalogue his attitude. She hesitated, but decided not to mention that she’d done blood magic in Westbay’s presence, or rather, cast blood magic on him. Westbay hadn’t even realized, and she didn’t feel like admitting to any more stupidity. “He thinks I share his childish interest in detective stories because he likes to talk about the investigation into the Raven Queen, and he saw me do a rather impressive piece of magic. That’s when his attitude really changed. At first I thought he just wanted to use me, but he’s been inviting me to spend time with his friends, acting ingratiatingly, and overall pretending as if we’re best mates. Even when I snap at him, he might snap back but he just keeps trying to burrow closer like a worm. Honestly, this morning I think he thought it was all some sort of adventure from an Aberford Thorndyke story. I couldn’t get him to leave me be—he forced himself along. He doesn’t seem to have a sense of real-world consequences.”

Oliver stood, paced a little, and then stopped with his hands in his pockets, rocking forward and back on his heels while staring at the ground. Finally, he looked up grinned at her, “That’s perfect, actually. If you can play deeper into that part of his personality while also gaining his loyalty, you can make your friendship and all the feelings that come along with it indispensable to him. Over time, with careful handling, he might even become a valuable resource. He’s a high-ranking member of the Crown Families, after all, with both money and influence.”

Sebastien narrowed her eyes at Oliver. “Are you sincerely hoping I can turn him to your cause? Overthrowing the Crowns’ law and rule to create some kind of idealistic utopia for everyone else?”

Oliver’s smile sobered, but didn’t fall away entirely. “Unlikely, perhaps, but not impossible, with enough time and subtlety. He doesn’t need to know what he’s getting into right away. Perhaps by the time he realizes, it will long have been too late.”

“Subtlety is not my strong suit, Oliver. Nor is manipulation. I’m too…sharp and grating. Too impatient. I can control and take responsibility for myself. Tweaking someone’s strings until they dance to my tune like a puppet? I don’t have the dexterity for that.”

“All the better. It won’t be as suspicious coming from you. We’ll keep things simple enough. Mysterious. He can fill in the blanks himself. You don’t have to lie overmuch, just honestly and boldly keep secrets, and with the right original framework for the whole idea, he’ll be drawn in to the mystique, to the emotion, like a moth to flame.” Seeing her skeptical look, he said, “I’ll help you. We’ll walk through the whole thing together. It’s easier than you think, I promise. You’ve already laid most of the groundwork without even realizing it, I’d bet. Sebastien Siverling, a mysterious, aloof prodigy who has been withholding his friendship and confidence, suddenly offering someone desperate for belonging and meaning the inclusion he didn’t even realize he craved? It would work on a lot of people, but him in particular, I think.”

She sighed with reluctant acceptance, feeling that Oliver was much too confident. “I will attempt it, at least. Then, with Tanya Canelo, would it be acceptable to recruit other students to aid in the surveillance? Her counterpart, the other student liaison, he’s expressed a willingness to work with me, and I know he’s in need of gold.”

Oliver paused, but finally said, “I’ll leave that up to your judgment. Please be cautious. If we do this incorrectly, it could lead to unforeseen consequences. Things could suddenly get a lot worse than they already are.”

She nodded, subdued. “I will.” It was a promise to herself as much as him. “I’ll keep you informed. Please do the same for me.” Oliver agreed, but Sebastien still didn’t feel stillness, the internal settling, of a fully realized plan. “We’ve got a way forward, at least, but no matter what we find out, it’s not going to solve the original problem.” She leaned forward, clasping her hands together, but almost immediately found that posture to be too weak. She straightened, pushing back her shoulders and raising her chin, letting her elbows rest over the sides of the chair with a confidence and surety she didn’t feel. “Unless, and this would be wonderful for us, but it seems a little too optimistic to hope for— Unless the blood sample they were using was destroyed in the explosion, they still have my blood. And as soon as Eagle Tower is repaired, maybe sooner if there are any other powerful divination arrays available, they’ll be searching for me again.”

She flexed her shoulders, feeling the five disks under the skin of her back. “What we’ve done to mitigate the danger isn’t enough. Is there really no way for us to get my blood back from them, or destroy it?” She explained the ideas she’d come up with while waiting for him to return.

He rubbed his face. “I understand what you mean, and you make some good points. Develop your ideas on the sympathetic magic. You should do that ‘reverse-scry’ again the next chance you have. I’ll have my people put out feelers for more mundane opportunities. If it wasn’t destroyed, they’ll be taking it back to warded storage. Maybe if the blood was in transit and we knew the route and the time we could lay an ambush. That could be effective even without needing complex, powerful magic. Probably cheaper, too. As it is, I don’t believe destroying the blood impossible, because no defense is impenetrable, but I don’t have the ability to make it happen. Not without sending my people into a suicide mission. And I will not do that. Let us see how the next few weeks develop. However, if you want to take another loan to hire someone like Liza to help you with development or casting a spell to destroy it remotely, I might be able to convince Katerin.” He smiled encouragingly.

Sebastien suppressed the urge to scowl at him. Why should she borrow a huge sum to solve the problem that was as much his fault as hers, and which put him equally in danger? She resisted the urge to point that out, remembering her worries about being considered too steep a liability. Oliver might act like an altruist, but he had led her into an impossible position and was willing to take advantage of her vulnerability just like any other manipulative loan shark. He was a criminal. And sometimes criminals did drastic, immoral things to keep themselves safe. She needed to remember that. Even if he wasn’t planning to betray her as a liability, he could have easily decided to force another debt on her in the name of resolving the problem.

She sighed, considering mentioning her other big problem, that she needed a better Conduit, but the thought of begging for help made her muscles clench and her throat close up. Oliver had given her eleven hundred gold already. Even if he wasn’t exasperated by the way she’d blown through such a large sum—she still couldn’t quite believe or comprehend how easy it had been to spend—he would just offer her an additional loan, binding her with more attached strings the same way he wanted to do to Damien Westbay. And just maybe, it would be the breaking point that made him decide she was too much of a risk to maintain. She kept the distrust from her face. ‘I’ll find a way to handle the Conduit on my own. Once I do that, I’ll eventually find a way to turn their divination attempts against them. There are options. I just need the resources to access those options.’

Sebastien and Oliver talked for a while longer, discussing the details of their plans and the best reactions to possible permutations of events. He came up with ideas that she never would have, the one for Westbay involving a drink coaster, an astronomy potion, and the kind of pageantry that Sebastien found ridiculous, but which Westbay would love.

Sebastien was feeling a little more settled by the time the sun began to set. She stood. “I’d stay to do some brewing—I could certainly use the gold—but I’ve homework and spell practice left undone. Perhaps I could pilfer the kitchen for some bread and cheese to take back with me?”

He waved his hand carelessly. “I’ll have them pack you a proper dinner. But wait a moment. There is one more thing I’d like to discuss with you.”

She raised her chin, staring at him.

“Do you remember I mentioned that the leader of the Nightmare Pack, who the Stags are recently aligned with, wanted to meet you?”

“I remember something about him being a fan of the Raven Queen.”

“Yes, well, your faculties were somewhat impaired at the time I mentioned it. Lord Lynwood asked to meet you quite insistently the last time we spoke. I made it clear to him that I don’t control you, but I would pass along the request. I also made it clear that you expect a sort of...tribute, for doing favors like this. He says he’s prepared something.”

She raised an eyebrow. “A bribe, just to meet me?”

“More like payment, to make it worth your time, and in the hopes that you’ll look favorably on him. Your reputation precedes you. I don’t know what the payment is, or what exactly he wants from you, but if he gives you something of value, I’d be willing to split its worth with you. It could solve some of your gold problem, at least, and if he has a request you can’t fulfill, you could simply turn him down. It only requires that you act powerful and mysterious enough that he feels the meeting was worthwhile.”

She crossed her arms. “Half of any tribute he gives me? Why should I agree to that?”

“I’m brokering the meeting.”

Her chin rose. “Ninety-ten. That’s an actually appropriate number.”

“I also legitimize your claim to power and infamy. Sixty-forty.”

“You had little to do with my supposed power and infamy. Simply refraining from telling him the truth serves you as much as it does me. I’m sure he took into account your powerful contacts when making this deal between your two gangs, and that legitimizes you. Seventy-thirty. And please remember, you’re not the only one who could set up a meeting between the two of us. A meeting which I’m only willing to take because of the chance of payment. This is a risk for me. Things could go wrong. Things we can’t anticipate because we don’t know why he wants to meet in the first place. It could be a trap.”

“Lord Lynwood has honor. I doubt it would be a trap, but your point is taken. Seventy-thirty, agreed.”

They shook hands.

As she was leaving, she stopped and looked back. “Oh. One more thing. Newton Moore is the student liaison I was mentioning. The one that might help with Tanya. His father is sick, and his family is in need of money. I don’t know if they’re within Verdant Stag territory, but…”

Oliver nodded. “It’s good leverage.”

She shrugged. “Well, that too, but he could use the help. He could be useful to you. Maybe even more so than I am,” she admitted reluctantly. “Maybe someone could reach out to the Moores and see if there’s a way to help his father, or if Newton’s the kind of investment you’d like to sponsor through the University.”

Oliver stared at her with consideration for a few moments, but then smiled. “Okay. I’ll talk to Katerin about it.”

Sebastien nodded and turned back to leave with her own small smile. Seeking help for Newton was a little thing, considering, but it had been a shitty day, and she really needed a win right now, even if it wasn’t for herself.

A note from AzaleaEllis

If you were confused about the missing Chapter 52, it's fixed now. Sorry about that!

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-55-a-pact-of-stars/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 55 - A Pact of Stars

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 17, Thursday 8:30 p.m.

On Oliver’s instruction, Sebastien stopped by a small apothecary in the good part of town, just before they closed. She bought a single potion. He’d given her a purse of twenty gold for the new mission’s expenses, but she still found the price of nineteen silver exorbitant and painful.

Back at the University a couple hours after sundown, she stopped by Tanya’s dorm door. Light came through the crack at the bottom, and the movement of shadows showed someone was awake within. Sebastien listened for a while, but heard nothing.

Satisfied that she wouldn’t gain anything from more snooping at the moment, she strode into the dorms, retrieving a few small items from the chest at the base of her bed.

Westbay’s cubicle was only a couple away from her own against the far wall. His curtains were still open, and he looked up from scribbling an essay to meet her gaze with some surprise.

“Come with me,” she said. Without waiting for a response, she turned around and strode out of the room. She could hear Westbay scrambling to put on his boots and coat behind her, but she didn’t slow, heading out of the dorm building and toward the Citadel.

She went to the classroom that Westbay and his friends used for their morning study group. The building was mostly empty by now, with classes over and those who wanted to study having gone to the library to do it. She took a seat at the table.

When Westbay entered, she said, “Close the door.” When he did so, she gestured to the seat across from her. It was an auspicious sign that he was obeying without complaint or hesitation.

He settled slowly into the chair, light grey eyes meeting her dark ones, full of questions.

She folded her hands on the table, staring at him until the silence became uncomfortable. Finally, she asked, “What did you see today?”

“What did I see?” he repeated.

“I had the idea that you’re not completely oblivious to what’s going on around you. Was I wrong?”

Damien leaned forward, his shoulders loosening even as his chin rose and a small, satisfied smile stretched his lips. “You weren’t wrong. I did see things. I saw that Tanya Canelo got a letter that made her anxious. I saw that you followed her, or whatever clue you picked up from that divination spell you were casting—I noticed that, too—to Eagle Tower. I saw that she seemed to know when the rogue magic sirens would go off, almost as if it was planned.” He paused, searching for a reaction, but when she gave him none, he continued, “I saw that she hid while everyone was evacuating and was in the perfect position to cause that alchemy explosion and stop the coppers from finding the Raven Queen. I saw she had a scar, and I saw that it meant something to you, but I don’t know what. And I saw that you disappeared after classes, which probably has something to do with all this.”

Her expression remained neutral. “Is that all?” It was more than she had hoped, definitely, but it could have been worse. Westbay wasn’t a complete idiot, after all.

He seemed taken aback. “Well...perhaps I missed some things because I don’t have all the connecting information to understand what’s mundane and what’s a clue. But I think I did fairly well for coming into your investigation cold. Don’t you?”

‘My investigation? Well, that’s about the best spin he could put on it. Except he has ties to real investigators, and none of them will have any clue who I am, or find it amusing that I’ve been seemingly withholding evidence on an ongoing operation.’ She remained silent for a few moments, trying to figure out the best approach. ‘I wish Oliver was there. He may have coached me, but an hour is not enough to gain real skill.’ Aloud, she asked, “Have you mentioned any of this to anyone?”

Westbay shook his head. “No. I can keep a secret, Sebastien. I told you that. And I’m not an idiot. You don’t go around talking about an open investigation where a possible enemy or criminal could hear you.”

“Not even to the coppers?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed. “You haven’t gone to them either,” he said, as if defending himself.

She raised an eyebrow.

He frowned. “Unless...they know about you?”

She kept her eyebrow raised.

His frown morphed into wide eyes. “Or they have moles among the ranks,” he breathed, “and you can’t go to them.”

He wasn’t wrong. Oliver did have informants among the coppers, though that had nothing to do with this. Westbay was also making up his own answers to unanswered questions, just like Oliver had said he would.

“What’s going on? With Canelo, and you…and the Raven Queen? Who set off those rogue magic alarms? Was it the Raven Queen? Tell me,” Westbay commanded.

Sebastien snorted.

Westbay’s eyes narrowed. “You owe me a favor, Siverling. Is it time to call it due?”

She bared her teeth at him. “That favor is the only reason you’re in this room with me right now. But it’s only a medium favor. Not nearly enough to get that kind of information. Besides, I’m not sure you’re being totally truthful about your ability to maintain confidentiality, Westbay. Because you did indeed talk about an ongoing investigation with me, who you didn’t know and had no idea that you could trust. All I had to do was show a little interest in the Raven Queen.”

He gaped, and stammered before recovering. “Well, that was—I didn’t give out any critical information, and probably nothing you couldn’t have found out by going to the right taverns after a shift of coppers was off work for the day. This is different.”

“But you’ve proven your mouth can be loose when you don’t think it’s important, or when you’re around friends, or when you want to impress someone.”

“This is different,” he insisted, his nose flaring as he leaned forward. “I’d never talk about a case I’m involved in, whether the information was important or not.”

“Not even to your closest family members? To your brother?”

“My brother? You...think Titus can’t be trusted? Or someone around him?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I think that if you’ll tell a secret to your closest family member…” She leaned forward. “If you’ll talk at all, that’s it. You’ll talk. And even if it’s only ever to that one person, even if it’s only when it seems reasonable, even necessary, then that one person can be used against you. In your case, Westbay, there’s one particular enemy that I’d like to avoid ever getting wind of what I—and possibly you—will be doing here.” She waited a beat. “Your father.”

He blinked, then shook his head. “My father? He’s not—”

She cut him off. “I think you know that’s not true.” She resisted the urge to swallow nervously or let her gaze slide away.

He stared back at her, small expressions she couldn’t decipher flitting across his face. Finally, he said, “I’m not sure if you’re insinuating something deeper, but you’re right that he’d want to stop me, and you by extension. He doesn’t respect me.” His last sentence was simple, but even Sebastien could tell it held a wealth of emotion.

She leaned into it. “The man is a stain on the name of all nobility,” she said, her voice low. Oliver had told her a strong, even offensive stance against Lord Westbay would be one of the best ways to keep his son’s mouth shut.

Damien’s eyelids fluttered at the words.

She pushed one step further. “He has no honor.”

When Damien didn’t immediately respond, she knew she hadn’t misstepped. It was actually somewhat exhilarating.

“You’re different from him,” she continued. “And you don’t have to be constrained by your name or your blood. So let me ask you, Damien Westbay. What do you want?”

He considered for a moment, then said, “I want to know what’s going on. I’d like to help, as an ally.”

Sebastien almost release a bark of incredulous laughter. ‘Has he not even considered the danger, or that whatever I’m involved in might not be on the side of the “good guys?”’

“You might think I’m foolish, but there’s a lot I can offer, Sebastien. I’m a Westbay—”

She cut him off. “Your name holds no meaning to me. It’s your character I want to see.” Oliver had said to make it personal, to make Damien feel seen and accepted. “What do you want?”

“You already asked that. I told you—”

“What do you want out of life? What mark do you hope to make on the tapestry of fate? What is your true goal, your real ambition? What will give you worth, Damien? It is not your last name. Answer carefully.”

His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. Despite the chill in the air that wasn’t fully dispersed by the Citadel’s climate spells, his temples were starting to bead with tiny dots of sweat.

It took him a while to answer, but she waited silently, her own heart rushing in her chest with the thrill of it. ‘This is power, too,’ she admitted silently. ‘I can see why Oliver likes it.’

“I want to do something that people—” Damien broke off, and after another long pause he finally said, in a softer voice, “I want to feel like I matter.”

It was sincere enough, and raw enough, that Sebastien had to look away for a moment, feeling uncomfortable and a little guilty. “I can give you that chance,” she said in an equally soft voice, returning her gaze to his. “If you would like to join my operation—and let me be clear that it is rarely as exciting as it was today, and is more likely to be nothing more but a boring strain on your ability to complete your homework—If you’d like to join, I’d like to have you.”

“Yes,” he said, without an ounce of hesitation.

“You should have hesitated. So that I would know you really understood what you were promising. You’ll be a probational member of this team, and will be giving up the favor I owe you in exchange. I’m in charge. You’ll be doing boring work, sometimes relegated to research. You won’t get to know all the details. This will be nothing like an Aberford Thorndyke story, and you will never get to talk about it to anyone.”

“I agree,” he said, again without hesitation. “The reason I’m not hesitating now is because I already decided I wanted in on this. I’m fine with everything you just said.”

“It could be dangerous. And you will have to prove your loyalty as well as your ability. You may occasionally have to do things that go against the laws for acceptable civilian behavior. ”

“I agree,” he repeated for a third time, unable to keep the excitement from sparkling in his eyes.

She settled back, still somewhat unsatisfied. ‘I wish I could get him to sign a blood print vow of secrecy, but even suggesting such a thing would be likely to send most people running to the coppers. I’ll just have to risk it. If he hadn’t inserted himself into things today and ended up getting too much information for comfort, I’d never bring him into it. But at least this way, I can keep him close and hopefully under control.’

He frowned at her, a hint of irritation leaking through. “Are you still holding a grudge because of the way our acquaintance started? I’ve learned to look past your abrasive nature, Sebastien. You could do me the courtesy of the same.”

She sighed. “Fine. Pending your initiation, you’re a provisional part of the team, Westbay.”

“Damien. You should call me Damien. I already call you Sebastien, after all. Unless!” He paused dramatically, perking up. “Should we have codenames? I could be Nighthawk. Or Shadowbane. You could be…”

Sebastien raised a hand to forestall him. “Damien is as far as I’m willing to go. Take what you can get.” She had more than enough identities to keep track of already, she didn’t need another.

He seemed a bit disappointed, but perked up quickly. “What’s this initiation, then? Who are the other members of your team? Are you part of an organization? Or on a secret mission from the coppers?” When she didn’t answer, he continued, “…A secret mission from the Red Guard?” His eyes were wide.

“You are letting your imagination run away with you,” she said, standing. “Come with me.” She led him into the Menagerie, walking till she found a spot far enough away from the light-bordered cobblestone paths that their night vision wouldn’t be affected, where there was a wide, clear view of the sky.

Damien matched her silence as she picked up a stick and scratched a Circle into the leaf-strewn, dying ground, big enough for the both of them to stand inside.

It was windy, which it often was, so high up, and the flurries carried dead leaves and the premonition of snow. The moon’s glow filtered through the trees, near the horizon, but the sky was clear and cloudless. The stars were clearly visible. Sebastien looked up at them with satisfaction.

Damien cleared his throat. “What are we doing here?” he asked in a hushed voice.

She lowered her head to look at him. “Perhaps you didn’t really understand what you were getting into. Do you want to go back? We can forget everything that’s happened tonight. It’s not too late.” Of course, she didn’t really want him to be frightened off. She wanted to bind him with shackles formed entirely in his own mind. That was the purpose of most initiation rituals, after all. Oliver thought it would have been more effective with a group of people to lend to the sense of ceremony, but she didn’t have that luxury.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“You can be just Damien Westbay, University student who goes to classes and has fun with his friends. You won’t be a part of this, but nothing will be expected of you. Maybe you will find a way to matter on your own.”

He stared at her for a few seconds in the darkness, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but just when she was growing worried he stepped forward, joining her within the Circle.

She smiled. “Stay here.” She turned around, pulling the shallow bowl she’d retrieved from the dorms out of her pockets. There was a small stream nearby, and she dipped the bowl into it, filling it with a couple ounces of water. She returned, handing the bowl to Damien. “Hold this.”

He cupped it carefully, holding it in front of his chest with both hands.

She stepped back into the Circle with him, bringing her Will to bear. Like when she was brewing a potion, she used her Will to reinforce every movement. It lent a feeling of meaning, of ritual importance to the process, even for the parts that magic wasn’t technically required for, and during which she wasn’t channeling any actual thaums of energy.

Here, she simply fed her Will into the Circle, consuming slight amounts of heat from the dome around them and adding a tension to the air as she claimed authority over everything within. It took barely any effort, but Damien would be able to feel it in his hind-brain, and it would lend gravitas to the impromptu ceremony.

She reached into her pockets and pulled out three small vials. “State your name.”

He swallowed. “I am Damien Corolianus Westbay.”

She resisted the urge to make a comment about his ridiculous middle name. “Damien Corolianus Westbay, I exhort your silence.” She took a drop of the first vial’s herbal oil extract on her finger and touched it to his forehead, staring down into his eyes, which seemed almost as dark as hers with nothing but the light of the stars to illuminate them. “Will you keep our secrets, knowing when to speak and when to remain silent?”

“I will,” he whispered.

She increased the pressure of her Will, though still she was casting no magic.

She anointed him with the second vial’s drop of oil. “I exhort your loyalty. Will you support us and our efforts faithfully and fully, with true heart and steady hand?”

“I will.”

She increased the pressure once more, then touched him with the third oil, the sharp smell of peppermint only increasing that feel of unreleased tension. “I exhort your resolve. Will you persevere through hardships and the wear of time, exerting yourself to fulfill our cause?”

“I will,” Damien said for the third time.

She pushed harder with her Will, till she started to reach the limit of her ability to coil potential force without anything to apply it to, then realized then that in this impromptu initiation ceremony, she’d forgotten to mention what their supposed cause actually was, and Damien somehow hadn’t asked, either. ‘So foolish. So naive.’ She pulled the astronomy potion out of her pocket and poured it into the shallow bowl of water, then supported his cupped hands with her own. “Our purpose,” she said, leaning forward slightly and trying to sound serious, “is freedom…and enlightenment. Drink, and look up. See beyond the edge of the sky.”

He hesitated, but she gave him a shallow nod of encouragement, and he lifted the shallow bowl and drank down its contents in a couple quick gulps.

As soon as he lowered the bowl, she released her Will at once with a mental outward thrust, just to be safe. It barely did anything, but the sudden lack of tension was almost palpable, and there was a small flurry of leaves that could have been more than the wind as a couple animals that had been hiding nearby scurried away in alarm.

Damien gasped as he looked up at the night sky.

Oliver had suggested this particular potion. It wasn’t mind-altering, addictive, or harmful in any way except if the user took it and then looked into a bright light. It improved the long distance night vision, making the stars seem brighter, clearer, and more colorful. It also supposedly emphasized the dark emptiness of the rest of space. In essence, the potion created a poor version of the effects of a telescope while allowing a much wider field of view.

She was using it now because most users reported, upon their first use, an overwhelming wave of awe and emotions, with the awareness of how small and insignificant they were, and the Earth was, compared to the vast, terrible beauty of space. Intense emotions would make Damien feel more bound to the promises he’d made and to their shared secret.

Damien’s eyes filled with tears, and he blinked to send them spilling down his cheeks, breathing hard as he gazed up in wonder. “It’s—I don’t—”

“Shh. I know. Just see, let yourself be conscious.” She waited a few minutes, until the tears had stopped flowing and his breath was beginning to slow, then said, “Repeat after me. I am small, as are we all.”

He did as she said, still staring up at the sky.

“But I am not without purpose. We are not without meaning.” She pulled the novelty drink coaster she’d gotten from Oliver out of her pocket. It was black marble embedded with a light crystal.

Using the stone disintegration and reformation exercise Professor Lacer had assigned them, she’d managed to mold the original circular light crystal into a thirteen-pointed star, working to pull out its edges in tiny sections. She didn’t want to give Damien something he’d recognize from some high-class artifact shop, after all.

“There are stars in this world, too,” she finished. When he’d echoed her, she said, “Look at me.”

Slowly, he drew his gaze back down to the earth.

She twisted the black marble disk, slotting the inner section into the outer, and the light crystal activated, a star among darkness. She handed it to him in her cupped hands. “You may be one of them, if you prove yourself worthy.”

He squinted against the mild glow of the light crystal, but took it reverently.

“This is the sign of our people,” she said. “If ever anyone comes to you with one, you will know you can trust them, and should help them if they need it.”

Letting out a shaky breath that fogged in the air brightened by the light, he nodded. “Does it…this group, or order, does it have a name?”

She rolled her eyes. “What’s with you and wanting a dramatic name for everything?”

He looked up from the light, the mystique of the moment lessened. His lips quirked up in amusement, and he scrubbed the tear tracks from his cheeks, sniffing hard.

“No,” she said, deciding not to make something up on the spot. “We have no name. Things that have names get talked about. Besides, we are more than a label to constrain us.”

“Freedom and enlightenment?” he echoed from her earlier words. “How exactly does that work? What do we actually do?”

“We do what is needed to fulfill our purpose, especially where others do not. Think on these principles. On what it means to be a light in the dark. I cannot give you the answer. It must be understood on your own.” It was vague nonsense, but the best she could do since she had no real answer prepared.

He frowned over this for a moment, but then asked, “How many of us are there?”

“You’re only a provisional member,” she said. “Remember? You don’t get to know everything.” She picked up the bowl, which had dropped on the ground at some point, and jerked her head in the direction of the University. “Come on, let’s get back.”

He turned to follow her. “What do I need to do to become a full member?”

She shrugged. “There’s no specific assignment. You’ll prove yourself or you won’t. There’s no penalty if you don’t, but you don’t get to ask questions as a provisional member.”

He mulled over this for a few moments, but tucked the drink coaster into a pocket on the inside of his jacket carefully. “What’s my first assignment, then?”

“We’ll be gathering information on Tanya Canelo and her associates. I want to bring on an informant to help us keep track of her,” she said. “Not another member, just a contractor. You won’t have enough time to do it by yourself.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. Who?”

“Newton Moore,” she said simply.

A smirk grew on his face. “Oh, that is perfect. He has a flawless excuse to spend time with her. They’re both student liaisons, and they have at least half their classes together. But can he be trusted?”

“You’ll help me judge that. He won’t know anything about what’s really going on, but we still need him to be both thorough and discreet. From what I know of him, he has both qualities.”

“We should conduct the interview right away. I don’t want Canelo getting out of our sight for a moment,” he said gravely.

“I agree. And we will be doing more than personal observation, if we can manage it. But for the moment,” she said, checking the time on her pocket watch with the approaching lights of the University buildings, “I’m pretty sure Newton is tutoring someone in the library. What do you say we catch him as soon as he’s alone?”

Damien smoothed back his hair, straightened his clothes, and took the lead, striding straight toward the circular building.

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Chapter 56 - Forming a Team

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 17, Thursday 9:15 p.m.

Damien had to stop outside the library and adjust to the brightness of the lights illuminating the path and the doorway. He still winced when he entered, shielding his potion-dilated eyes even though the building’s shimmering walls and the ceiling were dimmed, not shining with daylight-brightness.

“Do you think he’ll agree?” Damien asked her as they made their way toward the private room Newton usually booked for tutoring.

“I’m not sure,” Sebastien admitted. “It might depend on his sense of honor, or his regard for the two of us compared to her.”

They slipped inside the private room as Newton was packing up, with less than an hour left until the library closed. His clothes were wrinkled, his eyes tired, and his fingers smudged with ink and chalk.

Damien closed the small room’s door, then locked it.

Newton’s eyes trailed this movement, and then went to Sebastien. “What’s going on?” His tone was too weary to seem alarmed, even if he had been inclined to anxiety.

“Do you remember the offer you made, concerning employment?” Sebastien asked.

Newton nodded slowly.

“I’m here to take you up on it, a bit sooner than perhaps either of us expected.”

“You want to hire me?” Newton asked her, looking to Damien questioningly.

“Why don’t you sit?” Damien said, gesturing to one of the newly-vacated chairs around the table. “The job is contingent upon your performance in this impromptu interview.”

Still obviously confused, Newton obliged.

The two of them sat across from him. To Sebastien’s relief, Damien didn’t immediately try to take over the flow of conversation, deferring to her to start.

“What I require is of a delicate nature,” she said. “The kind of thing that might call for you to lie to a classmate or friend, but nothing that forces you to harm the innocent or do anything truly distasteful. Is that the kind of thing you can handle?”

Newton hesitated, but nodded. “Hypothetically, yes. But… Sebastien, what is this about?”

“Your silence is the prerequisite for saying any more, whether or not you decide to take the job. Can you agree to that, as well?” she asked.

He hesitated, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Are you asking me to help you cheat on the mid-term exams? Because, to be honest, I really don’t have a way to make that happen, and I’m also not sure that either of you would benefit very much. Westbay already scored among the top three hundred of incoming students, and you can’t be that worried about your own results, Sebastien. Besides, it’s the end of term exams you should really be worried—”

Sebastien stopped him with a shake of her hand, unable to hide her smile. “No, Newton. It’s not that at all.” She looked to Damien, then back to him. “Can we trust that you’ll keep this conversation private? I want your oath, or we walk out this door right now.”

Newton straightened, looking more alarmed. “I swear on my name and honor, unless I judge that what you tell me will bring serious harm to yourselves or others, I will not divulge the contents of this conversation. Now please explain.”

“We want you to spy on Tanya Canelo!” Damien burst out before Sebastien could say anything, vibrating with poorly suppressed excitement.

Sebastien could have strangled him. Damien could be smooth and cunning just long enough for her to let down her guard, and then he slipped into this childish obliviousness and ruined it.

Newton’s face sped through a series of expressions, too quick for Sebastien to decipher them, and finally settled on wary interest. “I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “Or rather, I understand the actual words you’re saying, but…why? What would I be looking for?”

‘At least he didn’t immediately refuse. He’s considering it.’

“Everything,” Sebastien said simply. “Even the things that don’t seem particularly memorable. We want to know every time she leaves your sight, anyone she speaks with, even the things she researches for homework projects.”

“Can I ask why?”

“No, you can’t,” Damien said.

“We have good reasons,” Sebastien said. “And no intention to place ourselves or other students in harm’s way.”

Newton rubbed one of the ink splotches on his fingers, staring at her. “Did Tanya do something? Offend you?”

She smiled. “She did something. It didn’t offend me personally. And before you ask, it’s the kind of delicate matter that we cannot take to the authorities. We could do this without you, but…” Sebastien reached into her pocket and pulled out the small purse Oliver had given her. It held the operating expenses he’d supplied for this mission, since Tanya being associated with the Morrows and the Morrows possibly having a connection to the University and its power was relevant to him as well as her. There was only eighteen gold and one silver left after the astronomy potion, of which she now had several useless doses remaining. If she needed more funds she would have to ask for them. She pulled out one gold crown and set it on the table, then pushed it with her finger toward Newton. “Two gold a week,” she said, leaving the coin in front of him. “That’s a signing bonus. Either you trust me or you don’t.”

Damien eyed the purse with some surprise, as if trying to gauge how much was hidden within.

Newton looked down at the coin, then up at her, his bloodshot eyes filled with an inscrutable mix of emotion. “I trust you,” he said, palming the coin. “So tell me again, and in detail. What do you need me to track?”

Sebastien didn’t try to restrain her smile. “I’m happy to be working with you,” she said. She didn’t know how much he actually trusted her, and how much he was simply desperate for the chance to make extra coin. It didn’t matter, as long as he could be trusted to do his part.

She proceeded to detail exactly what that was. “We’ll want detailed written reports and a verbal review twice a week,” she finished. “Be discreet. Take the opportunity to get into her confidence, if possible. If you find something particularly important, you can earn a bonus, but we don’t expect you to place yourself in any dangerous situations.”

When they were done with the instructions, Newton left to get started, since his solo dorm room was directly adjacent to Tanya’s, and he would be able to keep tabs on her in the evening and early morning.

As Newton was leaving, he turned back to face Sebastien. “Thank you for thinking of me for this,” he said, adjusting the strap of his school bag nervously. “And, umm, for pointing Alec Gervin my way.” He grinned. “I’m charging him three gold a week for one-on-one lessons, and it’s going to be even more for the exam prep sessions.”

She grinned back. “I heard from someone knowledgeable that it works best to treat him like a dog.”

Damien flopped his head back and groaned, not without amusement.

Newton grinned wider. “Treats, praise, and plenty of exercise. Got it.”

“Be patient with him,” Damien muttered. “And try to work him through problems actively rather than focusing on the theory. He has to get his…paws dirty to grasp the ideas.”

When Newton had gone, Sebastien told Damien, “Your first assignment is researching and developing the other ways we’re going to keep track of her. I’d like to put a ward on her door, so we know when she goes in and out, especially at odd times. A tracker would be even better. Use the library as a resource. It will have all the knowledge you need, as long as you’re skilled enough to compile it. If you get stuck, come to me. If you need help casting, I can also help with that. In fact, I’d prefer to. Be circumspect about letting anyone else understand what you’re doing.”

Damien nodded without hesitation. “I already have some ideas. I’ll bring you a solution by tomorrow night. Perhaps it won’t be as elegant as some of the things my brother’s people come up with, but speed is of the essence, right?”

“We’ll have time to improve the system, if nothing happens. If something does happen, we need to be aware, even if it’s not exactly elegant,” she agreed. “As long as it’s good enough that she won’t become suspicious.”

Damien grinned, bouncing on his feet. “I can’t wait to get started. I’m going to start looking up references.” He hurried off into the stacks without waiting for a response, muttering, “Oh, I wish the library were open later. Only half an hour to check out everything I need…”

Looking after him with a bemused smile, Sebastien shook her head. She checked out a few books of her own and took them back to the dorms to finish her homework, then practiced Professor Lacer’s extra exercises. In some ways, it seemed a little foolish to be doing that with everything that had happened in the last day, but it wouldn’t do to be so panicked of what the future might bring that she ran around like a chicken with her head cut off and failed to prepare for said future. Improving her Will was something she could never set aside.

She had moved on to the third auxiliary exercise, which seemed to complement the new main exercise. It was very simple, only requiring her to create a ball of compressed air, and had similar simple principles to the air-cushion spell she’d learned years before to make bumpy wagon rides more comfortable.

With her small, contaminated Conduit, she could only compress a small volume. This exercise required a simpler thought process than the three-dimensional maze or the skewed sympathetic movement spell, but unlike the original ball-spinning exercise, at no point did inertia make the process easier. It seemed to actively fight against her with every second, pressing back against her Will with equal and opposite force, always vying to escape and disperse through any point of weakness.

Being forced to cast with a sub-par Conduit was starting to noticeably improve her efficiency, which was about the only upside. Out of the initial five bonus exercises, there were two left that she had yet to attempt. Though she had wanted to gain a basic measure of competence in all of them by the mid-terms, she knew that was probably impossible by now. Her progress would have been faster, if not for all the extra things she had to worry about.

There were no more attempts to scry her, which wasn’t necessarily a surprise, but was a relief. She felt like someone teetering at the edge of weightlessness on a rope swing, not sure yet if she would fly off or drop back down. The coppers could just be biding their time, or maybe Tanya had really disrupted their ability to try again, at least for now. She tried not to be too anxious waiting for the moment when they would surprise her again.

The next morning, she got a letter from Oliver, brought by a runner and then delivered by the Administration office. She broke the wax seal, then tore through the redundant paste seal below that. He’d been conscious of security, even though the only thing inside was a meeting time, and a note to arrive a few hours early.

The Raven Queen would be meeting with the Nightmare Pack leader that Sunday, an hour after dark, approximately thirteen minutes after six, when the moon would be highest in the sky. It was an oddly specific time, but some people were prone to dramatics.

A note from AzaleaEllis

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Chapter 57 - Noticing Confusion

Thaddeus

Month 12, Day 17, Thursday 11:55 p.m.

After returning from the site of the false rogue magic alarm, which was still cordoned off so the investigators could look for evidence on the perpetrator who had gone to such lengths to deceive them, Thaddeus had learned of the failed scrying attempt on the Raven Queen. Suddenly, the timing and the effort that had gone into disrupting the whole city’s lives for a couple hours that morning had made sense.

Now, much later, he sat in one of the many rooms in the network of restricted archives beneath the library. He was looking through an ancient text that he was one of the few people in the world with the knowledge to decipher. Despite the importance of his research, he found himself distracted.

Setting off the city’s rogue magic alarms was not simple. No ordinary citizen could do it. And the effort that had gone into faking the scene was impressive, considering the limited time the culprit must have had between setting off the alarms and the arrival of the Red Guard. It had seemed senseless, at first, before he realized that it was quite the perfect distraction.

When the sirens had gone off, Thaddeus had requested the detailed information, as he always did, and had hurried to leave the University when he was told it was an Aberrant, Master-level, and an Eldritch type. He’d hoped to arrive in time to see it in action, and to study it before the Red Guard took it—or its remains—away to one of their black sites. The Aberrant earlier that month had been a particularly interesting specimen, an anomaly, and he’d been hoping for a repeat, though he knew the chances were exceedingly low.

The Red Guard squad had arrived before him and had already cordoned off an area around where the beacon had been sent from. They were sweeping the area in more detail, but the citizens had evacuated to the nearest shelter already, leaving the street eerily still, silent except for the piercing sirens.

The signs of what seemed to be a violent Aberrant attack were obvious.

The doors lining each side of the street in about a two-block area were smashed in, some torn entirely off their hinges.

Blood, guts, and organs were splashed haphazardly in and around each doorway. The blood was already half-curdled, sitting in stinking, oozing, jelly-like lumps rather than spreading and pooling.

The bodies were in pieces and entirely unrecognizable, missing head, limbs, and any other identifying features.

As he wasn’t an active member of a Red Guard emergency direct response squad, Thaddeus had to stay on the edge of the cordon with one of the communication and containment team members, but that didn’t stop him from casting diagnostic and warding spells.

As time passed and he caught no signs of the Aberrant, with the communication team member beside him reporting a similar lack of success from the direct response team, he grew increasingly alarmed.

“Could it be a Nightmare?” one of the containment team members muttered to his partner.

Even the words sent a cold centipede crawling up Thaddeus’s back. He crouched down to draw out the most comprehensive and obscure ward against mental interference that he knew.

No Aberrant was exactly the same as another, but they came in broad types.

A Nightmare, especially one at Master level, was the kind of thing that could warrant an entire village and all the people within being quarantined and then firebombed indiscriminately in a desperate attempt to deal with it. Nightmare-types were named such because they could control, in some way, the subjective experience of the people trying to take them down. They used stealth, subversion, or mind-control.

Thaddeus had seen Nightmares that could walk right past a prognos without the prognos realizing they were in danger. Others could insert themselves into your memories, an innocuous friend that you believed, despite any and all evidence to the contrary, was harmless and amicable. Others were barely mutated by the change, passing as the humans they had once been, while inside they were twisted and corrupted.

This ward wouldn’t help if the Aberrant was invisible, or could transform into an animal, or travel through the reflection of the shop windows, but all those were things he could handle. The sanctity of his mind was paramount.

It wasn’t until the direct response squad found the huge buckets filled with traces of blood and offal that they began to suspect the truth. The buckets were from a nearby butcher’s shop, and had been stashed in a back room of one of the houses whose doors had been smashed in.

When they found the pair of coppers that had set off the rogue magic sirens, that suspicion became a near-certainty. The coppers were lying on the ground in another house, drunk to the point of unconsciousness and relieved of the artifact that allowed all law enforcement teams to trigger the alarms.

The direct response squad levitated them back, tossed them into a quarantine ward, and forcefully sobered them up with a couple potions. The inebriated coppers could have been the product of an Aberrant with particularly strange abilities, but Thaddeus already suspected they had all been duped.

Fighting severe hangovers, both coppers denied triggering the alarms. They didn’t remember anything past stopping for lunch in one of the now-emptied pubs.

Whoever had done this was competent. The alarm-triggering artifact law enforcement teams carried was complicated, and required various inputs to send off the call for help and activate the alarms. Either the perpetrator had known the password string and the various codes to communicate danger levels to the Red Guard, or they had extracted that information from the coppers. They’d taken the artifact with them, too, and must have started falsifying the scene immediately after the area was evacuated, and escaped shortly before the arrival of the Red Guard.

Of course, all this evidence wasn’t enough to make them let down their guard. They had to verify that the blood and offal were all from animals, do divination to confirm that the broken down doorways were damaged by a standard concussive blast spell, and search for signs of curses, erased memories, and either replacement or subversion of the two coppers. No two Aberrants were exactly alike, after all.

Hours of tedium later, and with only a little bit of work as an expert consultant on Thaddeus’s part, they had determined with surety that there had never been an Aberrant at all.

The Raven Queen, possibly one Siobhan Naught, had foiled the attempt to find her flawlessly.

He wondered if she had some further use for the artifact she, or her agent, had taken from the coppers. Unlike the last time she’d had an altercation with law enforcement, she hadn’t shown herself directly. Even the report of the Master level Eldritch-type hadn’t matched her description or that of her shadow-raven companion.

The Raven Queen seemed the type to make a show of it. She would poke fun at their inability to stop or catch her, or leave behind some gift that would perplex and frighten them. This had been skillful, but it lacked her bold, playful signature. He doubted she’d been directly involved in the operation.

Thaddeus stared sightlessly at the arcane glyphs on the ancient parchment laid carefully on the desk in front of him, simultaneously fatigued and filled with restless energy now that he was back at the University.

He wondered again what had been in the book she stole. Those higher up in the University and the Crowns surely knew, and thought it was important. Important enough that they were treating it like a national secret. Casual questions had lent no information, even to him, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be seen being too interested.

If she were looking at these records of those who had lost themselves to magic thousands of years ago, would she be able to read them? Would she understand the significance of his research?

He dismissed the thought along with the desire behind it. She was too volatile, too open to risk to be a viable partner. And his work was too important to risk.

Perhaps, though, that would make her the perfect test subject.

Again, he dismissed the idea. It was too reckless to even consider.

As much as he hated to admit it, sometimes he got lonely, being the only one with big ideas, the only one who really seemed to see and understand.

Maybe that was part of the reason he had finally decided to take an apprentice, provisional or not. He had seen potential in the Siverling boy, both in the perspective that leaked through in his test answers, and in his Will.

There was an intangible quality of the Will that had nothing to do with practice or even intelligence. It was that hidden part that was vaguely categorized as “Force.”

Thaddeus had always likened it to an all-consuming hunger. A bloodlust. A lack of self-imposed limitations. That was what it really was. And he could see that quality in the boy���s dark eyes.

Maybe Thaddeus had taken an apprentice in the hopes that he could, through imparting his own knowledge and ideas to someone with a similar lack of self-imposed limitations, create a companion for himself.

He had found himself recently disappointed in that choice, with Siverling sandbagging in class for Damien Westbay’s benefit. Thinking about it again, Thaddeus grew irritated. The memory of the boy refusing to keep casting past Damien’s limit and then staring Thaddeus down in his office afterward niggled like an itch in the back of his brain.

Thaddeus lifted his head, latching on to that itch. It wasn’t just irritation. It was confusion. Something didn’t make sense. Why would someone like Sebastien Siverling, proud and angry, bend his neck to a Westbay? If he were the type to do that, he never would have gotten into an argument or rivalry with the other boy. He wouldn’t have had the gall to look Thaddeus in the eye.

Thaddeus grabbed onto his confusion, tearing it open.

He delved into his memory of that day.

Siverling had been prone to wincing, some better hidden than others. He had been sure to face away from the light. He had kept his hands under the table, pressed against it, or in his pockets. He’d spoken as little as possible, moved as little as possible, maintaining impeccable posture. And despite Thaddeus’s watchful gaze, he had refused to keep casting over approximately two hundred thaums.

Damien had been worried for him.

“Will strain,” Thaddeus whispered.

He straightened, leaning away from the table. How had he not seen it? He was more than familiar with the signs. He knew Siverling was the type to push his limits like he didn’t quite believe they existed. The boy was a reckless fool, and eager to prove himself.

Thaddeus stood, moving as quickly as he could while still taking care to put the ancient parchment back into its spot gently. Siverling had already proved himself too stubborn to come clean. Otherwise, he would have done it immediately and saved himself Thaddeus’s ire.

No. Damien was the weak link here.

Thaddeus strode through the winding archives up into the library proper, which was closed to students and dark at this hour. He created a floating light above his head with a thought. It followed him all the way to the student dorms, which were also dark, and as silent as a building that housed thousands of young adults could be at midnight.

It took him a couple tries to find the ground floor room with his apprentice’s student group.

When he did, he snuffed the light, then cast a spell that would muffle sound in a large bubble around himself. He was tall enough to see over the edges of the stout cubicles, no need to pull back the curtains on every random student. He walked through the aisle separating the young women and men, noting the occasional sloppy wards placed by the barely competent “firsties.”

Damien’s bed was only two removed from the end, where Siverling had pressed his small bed and himself into the corner of the walls, like a cornered animal.

Thaddeus flicked back the thin curtain in front of Damien’s stone cubicle, strode inside, and clasped his hand over the boy’s sleeping face.

Damien woke with a gasp, scrabbling frantically at Thaddeus’s hand.

Thaddeus stayed still until the boy realized it was him and stopped fighting. Then he took his hands away, wiping the saliva off his palm with a grimace of distaste.

“Professor Lacer,” Damien croaked. “What are you doing here?” He looked around wild-eyed, panting.

“That day in my class, when Siverling couldn’t beat you—he had Will-strain. For some reason, he was keeping this a secret.”

Damien pushed himself into a sitting position, shaking his head. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh? Then what is it?” he asked darkly.

Damien looked toward Sebastien’s cubicle, though he wouldn’t be able to see anything with the drawn curtains of the student between them. Still, the thought of the other boy, so close, seemed to calm him. His breathing slowed, and he sat up more fully. “Well, obviously you think it’s something that warrants waking me up like an assassin in the middle of the night. I don’t know exactly what conclusions you’ve drawn, but I assure you, Sebastien is…he’s a good person. He deserves to be here. He’s smart, and driven, and maybe some day he’ll beat your record for the youngest Master of free-casting.”

Thaddeus raised an eyebrow at that.

Damien swallowed, but continued. “Coming here, to me, in the middle of the night was an act of…alarm.”

“Or insatiable curiosity and a disregard for social norms,” Thaddeus said.

Damien blinked at him. “Umm. Well. I’m not going to sate your curiosity.” He drew himself up a little straighter, lifting his chin defiantly. “But I can tell you that if you were alarmed, you don’t need to be. Sebastien is responsible.”

“Or you are gullible.” Thaddeus considered him for a moment. “Do you think being a Westbay will protect you from the consequences of defying me?” He stared into the boy’s eyes, imagining himself boring into those wide pupils like a maggot searching for answers.

Damien shuddered. His eyes seemed to darken, and for a minute he reminded Thaddeus of the older Westbay brother, Titus, uncowed and defiant. “I’m more than a Family name, Professor Lacer. I respect you, but I will not be cowed by you.”

Thaddeus smiled and stepped back. “I see he has a loyal friend in you. That’s good, I suppose. He’s foolish enough to need someone around to help him get out of trouble. As long as you don’t help him get into it, too.”

Damien gulped, then flushed. “It wasn’t his fault,” he admitted. “I’m not going to say anything more about it. I promised my silence.”

Thaddeus was slightly irritated, but he couldn’t deny some equal measure of satisfaction. Whatever he had done, Siverling had created a loyal and powerful ally. Those were useful.

Damien poked a finger upward, as if remembering something. He spoke slowly, as if sounding out the idea even as he spoke it. “However, I will say that you should provide better for your apprentice. Provisional or not. How can he prove himself to you without the proper tools? If he’s going to win contribution points at the end of term exhibitions, he’s going to need a better Conduit.”

Thaddeus stared at him a moment, then spun around, leaving Damien and stalking to the end of the room. He pulled back Sebastien’s curtains more gently than he had Damien’s.

The boy woke as soon as Thaddeus took the first step into the little cubicle.

Siverling tensed, but he wasn’t disoriented, his black eyes immediately locking on to Thaddeus while his hand slipped under his pillow. Likely palming his Conduit. His sub-par Conduit.

Siverling watched him approach, saying nothing.

Thaddeus leaned over him, speaking softly. “Do not speak. Listen, and hear me. I know that earlier this month in my class, when you refused to perform to the best of your abilities, you were hiding Will-strain.” He watched the boy for a response, but there was none, not even a hitch in his breath or a flutter of an eyelash. “I don’t care about whatever foolishness caused you to reach that point. Mr. Westbay has assured me of his silence on the matter, even in the face of threats. However, my tolerance requires that you understand one salient point.”

Thaddeus let his voice grow softer, as with a certain type of person that was more intimidating than growling or shouting. “You will not place yourself or the other students in such grave danger ever again. I do not care if you have stretched your Will to the end of its limits by torturing small animals or performing depraved sexual acts with some of the more questionable members of the student body. As long as you do not bring shame to my name. I do care that you do not afterward continue to cast without regard for the danger of doing so, not just to yourself, but to everyone around you. You could have killed yourself and half the students in that classroom with your stubbornness. Never again.” He whispered the last part, then stared into Siverling’s eyes in silence.

Siverling nodded, jerkily.

“The correct thing to do would have been to refuse to cast at all. Ideally, with a pass from the infirmary.”

Siverling nodded again.

“Good. You will regret it if we are forced to have this conversation again.”

Another nod from the boy, who was still following Thaddeus’s original order not to speak.

“Now, onto the second matter. Show me your Conduit.”

Slowly, suspiciously, Siverling pulled his fist from beneath his pillow, unclenching it to show the pitiful chunk of raw, uncut celerium within.

Thaddeus plucked it up, weighing it in his hand and then creating a light behind it to see its clarity. He sneered with disgust, tossing the disgrace back at his apprentice. “That thing could barely be expected to support the Will of a child of thirteen.”

Siverling just stared back up at him, blinking against the brightness of Thaddeus’s light.

His silence, rather than being gratifying, was beginning to irritate. “Speak, boy. Did your family not provide you anything better?”

Siverling’s eyes narrowed at that. “I’m on my own. I know it’s not very good, but I’ve been being careful with it. It’s a good lesson in efficiency,” he said challengingly.

Thaddeus snorted. “It is a lesson in impoverishment, and leaves you no room to grow. Come with me. No dawdling.”

Siverling’s jaw lifted. “Am I being expelled?”

“No, you imbecile. I am rectifying this problem which you should have come to me with as soon as you knew.”

As soon as Siverling had thrown on his jacket and boots, Thaddeus straightened his jacket and strode out of the room. They were joined by Damien, who said stubbornly, “I’m coming too,” when both Thaddeus and Siverling gave him surprisingly similar expressions of refusal.

Thaddeus didn’t have the inclination to argue at the moment. When the boys both flinched at the night air outside, he said, “Did the University’s loaner program not have anything better than that? Or did you shatter theirs and are trying to put off having to pay?”

Both of them looked at him blankly. He exhaled heavily, his breath fogging in the air. “The University offers low-level Conduits to first-term students who need them. All students should have been made aware of this when they signed up for their classes.”

“Never heard of it,” Damien said.

“Perhaps they thought I didn’t look poor enough,” his apprentice muttered darkly.

“Indeed,” Thaddeus said. “In any case, you are beyond needing a low-level Conduit, so the point is moot.”

When he led them toward the east instead of one of the other University buildings, Damien asked, “Where are we going?”

“To my lodgings. As a professor, I have been afforded a small cottage on the grounds. I keep my old Conduits there.”

The two boys shared a look of surprised excitement.

He had them stay in the entryway while he retrieved the Conduit from his warded safe in the back room. He tossed it to his apprentice, who caught it, wide-eyed. “I won that one off a particularly foolish noble in a rural tavern. He tried to have me killed for the offense, but I disabused him of that notion. This Conduit was better than my own at the time, and I used it until I outgrew it. Do not make me solve this problem for you again, Siverling.”

The boy looked up at him, his expressions vacillating between multiple different emotions. “I won’t. Thank you, Professor Lacer.”

Beside him, Damien was smiling rather smugly. No doubt the boy felt pleased to have orchestrated this.

“You will return that to me when you have outgrown it. Now get! Back to the dorms with you,” Thaddeus ordered, scowling. “It is well after curfew, and you’ve rudely kept me awake too long already.”

With his fist clenched around the Conduit, Siverling gave him a bow, then turned and left without another word, copied quickly by young Damien.

As Thaddeus had noted before, a disregard for even the idea of limits was necessary for all truly great thaumaturges. Siverling’s disregard was a little too broad, though. Will-strain was a sign that you had already lost control, and continuing past it was the kind of madness that turned young, promising men into corpses, or worse.

As Thaddeus prepared for sleep, one of his few true indulgences in life, he found the edge of his lip curling up in a slight smirk. By rights, he should be furious, but instead he found himself ruefully amused. “Children,” he muttered aloud.

At least Siverling wasn’t boring.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Thank you to everyone who has left a rating, review, or comment, and a special thanks to those who support me on Patreon. We’re getting closer and closer to the next goal, which comes with a double-bonus-chapter reward, plus an omake for the patrons to vote on. I'm interested to see what you guys will have me write.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-58-the-constitution-of-cockroaches/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 58 - The Constitution of Cockroaches

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 18, Friday 12:30 a.m.

Sebastien had trouble getting back to sleep after Professor Lacer’s impromptu nighttime visit, despite her exhaustion. She had left Professor Lacer’s house with Damien, who was just as wide-eyed and shocked-looking as she felt on the inside.

Sebastien grilled him on everything Professor Lacer had said to him, but really, there wasn’t much. However Lacer had figured out the Will-strain, Damien hadn’t helped him, and she couldn’t really fault Damien for mentioning her Conduit when it had gotten her a new one, one so much better it almost made her want to cry with relief.

Now that her problem had been solved, she realized it had been rather obvious. She had instinctively wanted to keep her new, sub-par Conduit a secret, and not only because she didn’t want anyone wondering what she’d been doing to break her old one on the same weekend the Raven Queen almost got caught. She’d unconsciously believed that if the University found out, they would expect her to immediately rectify the situation or be kicked out. Celerium was ridiculously expensive, exponentially so at higher capacities, and students without a proper Conduit were endangering not only themselves but others. There was no way they would value her as a student more than someone like Alec Gervin, even if she was more deserving.

But it was more than that. She hadn’t believed she could rely on or trust anyone but herself. It had been a long time since she learned that she was the only one in this world she could count on. ‘Maybe…maybe I can at least consider the option that someone else might actually be willing and able to help me when I need it,’ she thought, feeling uncomfortable with the idea. It didn’t feel safe, to think like that. But the proof was in her hand. Professor Lacer hadn’t even asked for anything in return.

The Conduit he had loaned her was still raw and unfaceted, but had been set in a metal ring with an attachment for her to hang it as the counterweight for her pocket watch. It was a little cloudier than the one set in her mother’s ring, now in the Gervin Family’s hands, but still large enough that she estimated it would support at least six or seven hundred thaums. She would need to have it tested.

Damien was rather smug about the whole thing, but she was actually too tired to snap at him. She felt like she’d lived weeks over the course of that single day, with enough stress and mental exertion to fill it all.

Sebastien used her new Conduit to cast her dreamless sleep spell. It worked like a crystallized silk, and she poured as much power into the spell as she wanted, without worry.

On Friday, she woke still exhausted, and was thankful to only have the two classes, Modern Magics in the morning, and Practical Casting in the late afternoon.

She spent the middle of her day in the library, on the ground floor in a spot where she could watch the staircase nearest Tanya Canelo, who was on the second floor where Sebastien couldn’t go.

She was reminded by the reduced number of bracelets hidden under her clothes on her forearm that she’d wanted to figure out how to cast that paper bird spell that was so common on the University grounds. It would be much more convenient to be able to send a secure message to Oliver, Katerin, or now even Damien, without needing to create a new pair of artifacts from scratch every time. Plus, just the ability to send a complete, nuanced message would make it worth it.

To her disappointment, while the spell’s details were easy enough to find, it wasn’t a viable option for her. Creating the paper alone was a long, complicated, and expensive process. It needed to be, for the paper to handle the magic and maintain the integrity of the animation and homing spells over even moderate distances.

Apparently the folded birds were a type of enchanted artifact. The University Administration center staff saved time on the folding by casting a continue-motion spell, which she actually knew. It was a complex spell array, and finicky, but you could essentially give yourself an extra set of arms or a dumb assistant as long as you could concentrate on keeping the magic active.

All you had to do was demonstrate the action as one of the inputs of the spell, and an invisible force would continue the action, exactly, for as long as you could power it. It was good for things like stirring a pot continuously if you wanted to leave your hands free for something else, and the woman she’d learned it from had used it for spinning thread and then weaving cloth.

It required extreme precision. If, for instance, while spinning thread the magic reached for a new bit of wool and found none in the exact spot that you had demonstrated it should pull from, it would continue all the actions of spinning thread with nothing. It had no problem-solving abilities. Longer and more complex action sequences were more draining, but also more likely to have an imperfection in the copied system that would lead to a total breakdown.

There was another, more advanced version that Sebastien didn’t know. The mimeo-motion spell would allow duplication of the continued motion in multiple places. People used it most commonly for producing multiple copies of books. A scribe could write one page while the magic copied their actions across a couple dozen other sheets of paper. The spell would then continue making dozens more copies without the scribe.

It was one of the great innovations of the Third Empire, under the Blood Emperor’s reign, and the biggest reason that books had become widespread and even marginally affordable. Unfortunately, it was largely useless for any magical application. It couldn’t be used to create a dozen potions at the same time, for example.

Returning her thoughts to the paper bird messenger spell, Sebastien considered trying to get her hands on some of the sheets that someone else had made, until she learned that the enchantment process of giving the folded paper false life required flicker-feathers.

The University bred the sparrow-like birds in the Menagerie. She knew, because she’d seen them blinking in and out of visibility with every flap of their wings. They were notoriously hard to catch, and their feathers were coveted and expensive.

Even if she could get all the components, the third point of discouragement hit her when she discovered the homing spell did not work on some magical extra sense. The paper bird simply moved to pre-programmed points or followed the homing beacon of the staff and student University tokens that everyone carried. The homing spell also grew more difficult to cast over distances more than a kilometer or two.

She gave up the idea of having her own paper birds sending messages at that point. ‘The University must be spending more on that little trick than people pay to send the messages. It’s just another way for them to show off.’ There were other magical methods to send messages to people, but all those she knew of were beyond her reach, either in resources, magical power, or knowledge, and most of the time in all three areas.

‘It looks like I’m going to have to make a few more bracelets.’ Damien would need a set of his own, after all. She might as well make some for Newton, too, while she was at it, and have them be part of a network, like her other bracelets were part of a network with Oliver and Katerin.

After that disappointment, Sebastien tried to study, but kept getting distracted trying to wrap her head around her piling mountain of problems. She doubted Professor Lacer was the type to hold punishment in reserve. If he was going to expel her, he would have done it on the spot, dragging her out of the dorms rather than giving her a warning. Still, she also hadn’t expected him to somehow deduce what she’d thought was a well-hidden truth out of the ether.

Before she knew it, the morning had passed and Tanya walked down the stairs, accompanied by Newton, who shot Sebastien a surreptitious thumbs-up behind Tanya’s back.

Sebastien didn’t follow. She didn’t want to make her interest in the other girl obvious.

The library emptied as most students went to lunch, but Sebastien’s stomach felt too sour and knotted to eat. “My life is falling apart,” she muttered. With a dramatic groan, she let herself slump forward until her forehead bumped the table.

“As bad as all that?” an amused voice asked from behind her.

Sebastien jerked up, turning to the woman who’d spoken. “Professor Ilma!” She tried to keep from focusing on the embarrassment so that she didn’t make it worse by blushing.

The blue-tinted woman sat down across the table from Sebastien. “Siverling, correct?”

Sebastien nodded.

Professor Ilma’s eyes drooped with boredom, her expression of disinterest belying her words. “It must take a lot for the life of a bright, motivated young man such as yourself to fall apart.”

Sebastien didn’t respond, staring at the her History professor as she tried to figure out how to respond without seeming suspicious.

Professor Ilma stared back, content to wait.

“My problems all seem to compound upon each other,” Sebastien said finally. “That’s all.”

Ilma nodded, as if she’d expected that. “Real life problems are like that. Sometimes, one catalyst problem can create an avalanche as time passes, as it impacts a delicate balance of unstable components. We see this repeated over and over again in history. And yet, here we are, none of these—at the time catastrophic—events have stopped humankind in the long run.”

‘Is she trying to encourage me?’

“This is not coincidence. We can take personal lessons from the greater lessons of people and times passed.” Ilma raised her eyebrows, as if expecting Sebastien to agree, but when Sebastien only nodded bemusedly, she sighed and straightened.

Her voice took on the tone she used while lecturing in the classroom. “We’ve discussed how precarious it has been for the human race many times throughout history. Yet now, we are the dominant race of the most fertile lands of this continent. I don’t believe it’s some individual inherent superiority that has allowed this. There is a tendency to focus our attention on great men who did great deeds, as if they were important. And sometimes, they were, but generally they were only able to accomplish these great deeds because of an overall shift in the surrounding culture or established powers.”

Ilma pushed back from the desk, standing to pace like she did in her classroom. “Great men do great deeds with the force of a society behind them. Now, some would say that this ability to form groups of many individuals that help each other and work for mutual benefit is the proof that the human race has a moralistic advantage, duty, and right to power and prosperity. But communities are not the purview of humans alone. And I would question whether this ability to form them is truly altruistic and a sign of morality, or whether it’s simply a matter of humans being so weak that this large super-organism of a city, or a country, is they only way for the individual to survive. Cooperation is utilitarian.”

The woman’s volume rose with passion, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. “If we are truly governed by morality, how can you explain the aggression, the persecution, the genocide against not only other races but ourselves? It is almost as if we cannot stop our inherent proclivity for aggression even when it’s not good for us. So I posit that the real reason we have managed to survive is twofold. One, despite being so weak magically, we are extremely versatile. Like cockroaches. And like cockroaches, we breed quickly.”

Ilma stopped, seemingly realizing where she was, and turned back to Sebastien. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she retook her seat. “My point is, humans are versatile and incredibly resilient, not only as a species but as individuals. If you are searching for an answer to a complex problem…”

She shook her head. “Decisions, solutions, aren’t always as binary as we like to think of them. It’s not always a good deed or an evil one, greed or altruism, left or right. And it’s also not always some combination of the two. The middle path can be even worse than one extreme or the other. However, sometimes people realize this and jump to say that no right path exists. Or that all paths are equally valid. Both of these are usually just as incorrect as a simple binary answer—though they might seem wiser, they’re useless. Humans don’t need useless answers. We need utility.” She stared at Sebastien as if expecting her to understand, now.

Sebastien frowned, fascinated by the impromptu lecture despite her initial bemusement. “I understand what you’re saying, but…”

Ilma sighed again, speaking before Sebastien could continue. “Humans are versatile and hardy. Like cockroaches,” she repeated. “Whatever complex, intertwined problems you have, they are not insurmountable. It’s not that there are no answers to complex problems. There are usually many. It’s just that they’re hard to find, and even harder to implement. If you can’t find a solution, look at your problems from a different angle, pull in new resources, and don’t be afraid to be ruthlessly utilitarian. Sometimes the solution is to kill whatever problem is too resource-intensive to deal with. ”

Sebastien thought all of that seemed reasonable, but she still wasn’t sure how to apply it to her specific situation. “Thank you,” she said, nonetheless.

Professor Ilma’s bored expression was back again. “Go to lunch,” she said. “Food is one of those resources humans need to solve problems.”

As Sebastien gathered up her things and left, Professor Ilma called after her. “Don’t forget your essay due on Tuesday!”

Ilma’s advice swirled around Sebastien’s mind, and she found herself thinking of it suddenly at random moments for a while afterward.

“Kill whatever problem you can’t deal with,” she muttered to herself. Her Conduit problem had already been solved, and to be fair it was the most critical bottleneck in solving the remainder of her problems.

She had two free Conduits now, the one she’d bought recently, and the even smaller one she’d had since she was a child, which was her backup. Professor Lacer had intimated that she could keep the one he’d lent her as long as she needed it—at least as long as she stayed at the University. Perhaps she could recover some of the gold she’d spent.

She bundled up in her expensive wool jacket and a thick scarf and headed into the city for Orbs and Amulets, the Conduit “boutique.”

“I’d like to return a Conduit I bought here a few weeks ago,” Sebastien said to the attendant.

The woman’s face lost its welcoming smile. “All sales are final. However, we will purchase undamaged celerium for a marked-down price.”

Sebastien held up the small piece of crystal. “How much?”

The woman took it and used a spectacle device and a bright light to examine it, then said, “Forty-five gold.”

Sebastien’s jaw almost dropped. “I bought this Conduit, from this shop, less than three weeks ago for seventy-eight gold crowns.” Her voice grew hard. “Are you telling me celerium prices have dropped that much since then, or are you just trying to swindle me?”

The woman’s expression tightened, but she didn’t back down. “Prices haven’t fallen, sir. As you should know, there is a thirty percent tax on magical products, and that includes celerium. In addition to that, we have overhead.”

That was ridiculous. Sebastien said as much. “Especially because so little time has passed that I doubt you’ve reported or paid tax for the original sale yet. And there is no need to pay taxes on returned items, which by definition have not actually earned a profit. I still have my receipt, this isn’t some random Conduit off the street.”

The woman sniffed. “All sales are final,” she repeated. “I’m happy to purchase this Conduit, but according to our policies there are no returns, receipt or no. Forty-seven gold is a high as I can go.”

Sebastien’s finger’s twitched with the urge to strangle her. She grabbed up her sub-par Conduit, spun, and strode out of the shop without another word. After she’d muttered angrily to herself for a few minutes, she tried her luck at a few other shops. While some offered slightly higher prices than Orbs and Amulets, none came close to the original seventy-eight gold she’d spent on it.

Frustrated, she began to trudge back to the University. ‘Maybe I could sell the Conduit through the Verdant Stag. At least that would allow me to avoid the magic tax.’

She was glaring down at her boots when a small flutter of brightness caught her eye. She stopped.

At the corner of a building, in the bottom mouth of a downspout gutter, a sprite with glittering dragonfly wings was struggling to haul a thick piece of what might have been scrap leather, or might have just been a piece of decayed animal founds on the streets into the gutter.

Sebastien grinned and stepped closer, squatting down to watch it.

The sprite bared its tiny, sharp little teeth at her, glaring with its lidless insect eyes, but when she didn’t move to attack, it continued struggling with the piece of scrap it had selected for its nest.

She caught a glimpse of the two half-larvae children within, who looked much less humanoid and had not yet sprouted wings. “This is a bad place to make a nest,” she said to them. “The rain is going to come and wash you all away.”

The adult sprite buzzed a little at her, but of course it didn’t understand.

Sebastien took off her scarf, wrapping it around her hand and reaching out for the sprite to see if it would let her pick it up.

It attacked viciously, but didn’t fly away as it might have done if not for its children. Its teeth cut through the yarn of her scarf rather easily, but didn’t injure her hand beneath.

Still, Sebastien drew away. She didn’t want to ruin her scarf—it had been expensive—and the sprite was too distressed to handle relocation. It might hurt itself out of panic.

It chittered and buzzed at her, and even flew at her face a few times to try and drive her away.

“Stop that! I’m trying to help you,” she said, ducking back. ‘Maybe a box, or a pot, something I could put them in to hold them safely and securely.’ She didn’t have anything like that on her person, but she might be able to borrow one from a nearby shop or home. ‘Or maybe I could cast a docility spell on them.’ She’d watched Liza cast one on her ravens a couple times, and was confident she could replicate it.

She stared at the angry, frightened creature for a while longer. The children within were wiggling, expressions of distress on their tiny, alien faces. They looked cold.

Tilting her head to the side consideringly, Sebastien slowly brought her Will to bear, not casting any magic, but letting it emanate from her like she did when preparing potion ingredients, before they went into the cauldron. There were other types of magic than those cast in modern sorcery. The animists of old had used no Circles, no spells, and no structured magic to create and control their domains. Yet, within them, they spoke to and seemingly controlled everything from the animals to the trees, having connected the life of the land to their own.

Animals were said to be sensitive to both magic and intent, though tests had been rather inconclusive. With her Will activated, Sebastien took a while to examine her own feelings of benevolence toward the sprites, and her surety that they were in danger. She tried to push all of that feeling into her Will, to let it carry her desire to communicate. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered. “You are not safe. I want to take you to a new nest. It will be warm and dry there. You can trust me.”

The adult sprite glared and buzzed at her only harder at first, but Sebastien kept pushing her thoughts into her Will, simplifying them into pure emotion.

When she reached out a second time, the sprite struggled a bit in her scarf-covered hand, but not as viciously as before. Sebastien fumbled out her little vial of honey from her vest pocket, clumsily opened it with her free hand, and offered it to the sprite.

The creature was immediately entranced. It shoved both its arms into the vial as far as it could push them, coating its forearms and pulling back with both hands cupped full of the sticky amber liquid. It ate in big, messy gulps, oblivious to the world.

Sebastien picked up the children and the bedding, too, holding the nest within the shield of her scarf. Sprites could get confused if they were relocated without the pheromones soaked into their nest.

The sprite ate the entire way back to the University, demanding more honey for itself and its children several times, enough to use up half her vial and have its belly bulging full.

She dug out a space for them from the base of a tree that had some protective bushes around, adding a little trench so that any water could flow away rather than fill their new nest and drown them. She gave them their bedding, including the piece of ratty leather, and added some cotton from her own magic supplies, which she fluffed up, along with one of the lava peppers she’d taken from Modern Magics when they were practicing the spark-shooting spell. It wouldn’t provide much heat, but even a little could help get them through the winter.

The sprites seemed completely uninterested in her, and in no way grateful.

Still, she smiled down at them. She felt better. Her frustration and fear from earlier in the day had melted away. “I can handle this,” she whispered to them, then left to go do her homework assignments.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-59-a-simple-solution/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 59 - A Simple Solution

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 18, Friday 8:00 p.m.

Damien was true to his word. That evening, he brought her his plans to keep Tanya Canelo under surveillance, complete with spell array notes and designs. There was a small ward they could carve onto the underside of Tanya’s door that should alert them when it was opened, and a couple different designs for a tracker that they would somehow need to get onto her person.

The couple proposed tracker designs weren’t active, not artifacts that would keep working even without input from either of them, rather they created sympathetic beacons that would point the way to Tanya like a compass when they used the linked item as a divination component.

“It will work,” Sebastien said, looking over Damien’s notes.

He smiled, but smoothed back his hair nervously. “Ana would be better at this. She’s taking Artificery. She’d probably have some design we could carve into the sole of Tanya’s shoe or some other ingenious idea.”

Sebastien looked up. “That’s a great idea, actually.”

Damien hesitated. “Err, well, yes, but none of the books I found had anything like that, and I don’t have any experience with spell design…” There was a reason why spell theorists and designers were paid so well. It was almost as dangerous as free-casting, if not quite so glamorous.

Sebastien shook her head, pointing to one design, a disk that was carved and spelled on both sides. After it was split in two, one half could be used to find the other until repeated castings caused the material to disintegrate. “Let’s put it into the sole of her shoe. Her boots have a one-inch heel. We can cut it open, insert it inside, and then seal the boot heel back together seamlessly. I know a leather-mending spell.”

“How will we get ahold of her boots?”

Sebastien smirked. “She doesn’t wear them into the shower.”

Damien’s face split with a grin of excitement.

They planned Operation Sentinel—as Damien insisted on calling it—that night, and found a cow leg bone to use as the material among the kitchen scraps from dinner. One of the cafeteria workers was happy to give it to Damien.

The two of them cast the linking spell together to give it as much power as possible. Technically, that part wasn’t a requirement, just as no linking spells had been done on Sebastien’s blood to allow the coppers to use it to search for her, but the extra step made things a lot easier. Sebastien cut the bone disk in two with repeated, careful castings of the same slicing spell that had gotten her involved with Damien in the first place.

They implemented Operation Sentinel early the next morning, before most of the other students were awake, while Tanya completed her daily ablutions.

It succeeded without problems, which Sebastien found faintly unsettling. ‘I’m a little too used to things always going wrong. I’ve come to expect it. Well, things still have time to go wrong,’ she assured herself wryly. The hardest part of the operation had actually been carving the tiny ward array on the underside of Tanya’s door without removing it from its hinges or being seen by the occasional person walking through the hallways even at that early hour.

Based on a combination of anxiety and a lingering lack of confidence in Damien, Sebastien wanted to stay at the University over the weekend to keep an eye on Tanya, but the crushing weight of the ever-increasing debt over her head and her own empty purse drove her back to Oliver’s house to spend Saturday and most of Sunday brewing.

She mentioned that she had an extra Conduit she could sell to Oliver, and while he was open to the idea, he wasn’t particularly optimistic about finding quickly finding a buyer who could afford the current price of celerium. “Our thaumaturges already have their own Conduits, and most of our clientele is either too poor to afford it, too uneducated to need it, or both.”

She gave a simple set of ward bracelets to Damien and Newton so either could immediately alert her if Tanya left the University grounds. She instructed Damien to otherwise be discreet, but to follow and monitor Tanya from morning till night. “Be discreet,” she emphasized.

Damien scowled. “I know, you’ve told me several times already. I promise I’m not going to sit there staring at her and be following two steps behind when she goes to the bathroom! I grew up in the Westbay Family, Sebastien. I think I can handle it.”

“Don’t get snippy, I think it’s a valid concern. You tend to draw attention to yourself. I’m not sure you have much practice being discreet.”

“I could say the same of you,” he said, crossing his arms and staring at her challengingly.

She opened her mouth to refute this, but he raised his eyebrows, and she hesitated. Despite not wanting to admit he had a point, she could see the evidence was stacked in his favor. ‘People of greatness rarely go unnoticed,’ she consoled herself. ‘Perhaps they need a little extra effort and time to practice to learn to keep the weight of their sheer consequence from drawing curiosity and regard.’ She struggled for a minute between a perverse pleasure in that idea and the more basic truth that it simply meant she had failed in her true goal. “Alright,” she said finally. “Good luck.”

Damien watched her leave with some curiosity, but he hadn’t tried to pry her own plans out of her, which she reluctantly appreciated.

‘Hopefully some day soon I won’t have so many crises to solve and will be able to simply spend my days like any other student, giving no one any hint of secrets to pry into.’

So, after another trip to the market Sebastien went to Dryden Manor to brew. The remainder of her Saturday, as well as most of her Sunday, was spent brewing for the Stag enforcers. Her new Conduit made it a little easier, and she thought with a bit more time to improve her Will she might be able to make more of the simpler potions in a single batch and thus increase her profits.

In two days she earned about five gold more than the interest accrued for the whole week. It was a lot, but still not nearly enough, and thinking of the debt hanging over her head made her irritable. ‘If I’d never paid Liza to talk to my father, I’d have at least a hundred gold left right now,” she grumbled mentally.

She stopped casting as the sun began to set, hours before her meeting with the Nightmare Pack gang leader, partially to reserve her strength in case it was needed, and partially to listen to Oliver’s lecture—which he called “advice”— on how to act and what to be mindful of around Lord Lynwood and his people.

“It would be best if you attend the meeting alone, for appearance’s sake. The Raven Queen needs no escort, neither for fear of enemies nor to listen to her negotiations,” he said.

“I expected that,” Sebastien agreed. “I was thinking, maybe you could cast a weak divination spell with me as the target? I need an opponent to activate the ward Liza made me, and the effects on my physical body—difficulty focusing on or thinking about me—could be useful in maintaining the Raven Queen’s aura of mystique, and might keep them from looking too closely and noticing something wrong, too.”

Oliver stared bemusedly at her for a moment, then said, “I’ll send a message asking Katerin about it. She’s not a diviner, but she can probably handle something low-level, if that’s all you need. I doubt she’ll mind.”

Sebastien shrugged. “That works, too.”

He hesitated, then stood up and went to his desk, where he pulled out a small package. He handed it to her. “I got you something for tonight. Open it.”

She did, and found two ornaments of black and crimson feathers attached to thin, splayed wires. She looked up at him. “They’re pretty, but what are they for?”

“They’re raven feathers. The red ones have been bleached and dyed. They go in your hair, behind your ears. It’s a kind of headdress. They’re common among the People…” He coughed a little awkwardly.

She nodded to show she wasn’t offended that he’d guessed her heritage, at least the part that showed through. Her grandfather had always been pleased that she looked nothing like her wastrel of a father. ‘The blood of the People runs strong,’ he had said.

“I thought they were fitting for the queen of ravens, a kind of crown for someone that has no need for gold or jewels,” he added. “Do you want me to help you put them in?”

Sebastien hesitated, but wasn’t sure why, so she nodded quickly and handed them back. “Yes, please.”

His fingers were gentle, brushing the rim of her ear as he pushed the wires into her hair.

Her skin burned where he touched, and the wires were cool as they slid against her scalp, weaving into her hair as if alive. She startled.

He chuckled. “It’s an artifact. The wires hold the feathers steady and then conceal themselves, so it looks like the feathers are growing out from your skin.” He stepped away, looked at her assessingly, then nodded. “Perfect.”

Her gaze slid away from his. “I’m going to look in the mirror.” She hurried down the hall to the bathroom, and took a few deep breaths to suppress the frustrating blush in her cheeks. “Don’t be a brainless ninny,” she muttered to herself, scowling at her reflection. She rubbed her ears harshly to rid them of the lingering sensation, then judged the effect of the feathered ornaments.

They did indeed give her a faint air of otherworldliness, even as Sebastien. She could imagine the effect would only be enhanced against the ochre skin and high cheekbones of her face as Siobhan. If only her eyes glowed gold or she had facial tattoos, or something like that, the effect would be complete.

After a couple more minutes to make sure she was entirely calm, and there was no way she’d get surprised into blushing again, she returned to Oliver’s study. “Thank you,” she said. “Now tell me more about this place that’s going to act as a safe house for my transformation.”

“It was the simplest solution, really. No one will think it strange if Sebastien Siverling occasionally visits a brothel, and Siobhan Naught would fit right in among a group of beautiful, exotic women. There’s no reason for someone to associate either identity with the Raven Queen.” He slipped her a leather bound booklet. “Identity papers, declaring you a citizen of Gilbratha. Silvia is legally employed at the Silk Door, and if she gets into any trouble with the law, she can call upon her wealthiest and most influential patron to help her. One Lord Oliver Dryden.” He coughed a little awkwardly.

“Lord?” Sebastien echoed, flicking through the proof of one more false identity.

He shrugged, leaning against his desk and crossing his legs at the ankle. “Technically. It’s foreign and basically a defunct title, with the destruction of my family as a boy, but it still affords me a measure of influence.”

“I hope it will never be useful, but thank you.” She wondered how much the false identity had cost him, but didn’t ask.

“My investigation into who set off the false rogue magic alarm has borne no fruit,” Oliver offered, changing the subject. “The coppers have no idea.”

“Perhaps Tanya will slip up and we will be able to follow the trail to her accomplices. Everyone makes a mistake eventually.” ‘Myself included,’ she admitted silently.

“You’re right. We have people watching the Morrows as well. Eventually, someone is going to slip up.”

With sunset approaching and little time to waste, Oliver hired a carriage to take her to her midpoint destination.

The carriage driver gave Sebastien a knowing look as she stepped down into the street. “Have fun, m’lord.”

She ignored the man, staring up at the large building made of creamy white bricks. The sign above had words rather than a picture like it might have in the slums, where stores couldn’t trust that their patrons could read. In unadorned lettering, it read, “The Silk Door.”

Sebastien entered through a side door. Within, soft music played. The lighting was soft, the furniture dark smooth wood and soft plush cushions. A couple girls lounged about in tasteful but impractically light dresses, kept comfortable by the fire raging at all hours and the warming stones laid under the floor.

It was a high-end brothel, discreet and comfortable.

Without pausing to speak to anyone, Sebastien followed Oliver’s directions, walking up the stairs and down two hallways to a private, locked room. She pulled out a key and entered. The room was more the size of a closet, but it was clean, and connected to another hallway and staircase, these ones private. She moved to the closet, where a nondescript but still stylish dress and accessories were waiting for her.

She stripped out of Sebastien’s clothing, pressed the dark matte stone artifact against her chest, and changed back into Siobhan.

She shrank a bit, her hair grew dark and long, and her skin gained an ochre tint. She looked into the small mirror inside the closet door. Her eyes were the same as always, dark and fathomless.

She stared into them for a while, taking comfort from the sudden vertigo of the change. She wiggled and flexed until her brain remembered how long her limbs were in proportion to each other and the floor. Then she put on the dress, smoothed her hair, and spread bright scarlet cream over her lips, very carefully making sure not to smear it.

She took a quarter hour to prepare the color-changing spell to fix the section of hair that Katerin had bleached. Lynwood would be expecting the Raven Queen, not Siobhan the Verdant Stag contractor, or even Silvia the courtesan.

She’d had trouble with the spell in Professor Burberry’s class before, so she squeezed every last drop of clarity and intent into her Will that she could manage. The spell worked well, perhaps even a little too well, leaving her hair a black that was so dark it almost shimmered blue.

Finally, she put the feathered ornaments back on, watching as they settled, lending a regal mystique to her presentation.

She transferred her spell components, the paper spell arrays, and Silvia’s identification to her new clothing and more stylish leather satchel, which was not nearly as convenient or spacious as her school satchel. “Women’s fashion,” she muttered disapprovingly.

When she looked nothing like the young man who had entered, she exited the brothel through a different door than she’d entered through.

A note from AzaleaEllis

This story is somehow below #200 in the rankings! Thank you to all the readers who have helped make that happen along the way.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-60-request-a-boon/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 60 - Request a Boon

Siobhan

Month 12, Day 20, Sunday 6:10 p.m.

Oliver had been right. The Silk Door was safe in its sordidness, as long as Siobhan didn’t make a scene. It was the kind of safe house where neither of her identities would seem strange, but which she could reasonably still want to avoid talking about or being trailed to or from, without seeming suspicious.

Shortly before the assigned meeting time with the Nightmare Pack leader, Siobhan walked up to the gate in front of the manor address Oliver had given her.

Katerin was already casting a weak divination spell with Siobhan as the focus.

She could feel the prickling coldness of the disks under her back as her ward fought against it and the way no one seemed to notice her as she moved through the darkening streets.

Siobhan had learned her lesson with the blood-mixed ink, and instead of giving Katerin something that someone else might also be able to scry for, like a piece of her hair, Katerin was attempting to locate Siobhan’s bracelet that was a match to her own. It was close enough to attempting to locate Siobhan directly that the ward still worked to block it, though not as efficiently.

There was a guard in front of the Nightmare Pack manor. He jumped suddenly when she stopped in front of him. White-faced, he took a single look under her hood and bowed deeply. “M—My apologies, Mistress. You startled me.”

Assured that the anti-divination ward was working as intended, she simply nodded silently.

The guard hurried to open the gate for her and usher her to the front door of the manor, where a few hissed words sent another servant scurrying to fetch Lord Lynwood at top speed.

Lynwood, a dark-skinned man with many small braids and bright amber eyes, appeared shortly afterward. He, too, took one look at her and bowed deeply.

‘It’s a sign of respect, that he’s come to fetch me himself.’

“I am Lord Lynwood, the leader of this group. We call ourselves the Nightmare Pack. I place myself at your service.”

“Well met,” she murmured.

Lynwood straightened, and with a boyish, awkward hesitation she wouldn’t have expected from the wolf-in-tailored-suit Oliver had described, he held out an elbow for her to take.

She pushed the hood of her cloak back, waved off the servant who stumbled forward with an offer to take it from her, and accepted his arm. She was as tall as him, and his eyes slid off her own when they met.

“I apologize for our lack of courtesy,” he said. “We had thought…” He cleared his throat. “Well, we thought you might appear out of the shadows or come through the window.”

She carefully kept her mouth from dropping in shock, and then suppressed an amused guffaw. ‘What does he think this is, some sort of fairy tale? The rumors circulating about the Raven Queen must be absolutely outrageous.’

Oliver had warned her to speak as little as possible, especially about topics she didn’t understand, and to adhere to formality when she did speak. ‘It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt,’ she quoted mentally. So she simply said, “That would have been rude,” with the barest hint of a smile.

“Right.” Lynwood nodded, then finally began to lead her down the hallway.

They had been walking for a few seconds when he said, “You smell of sweet dreams.”

She was prepared for his strangeness this time, and didn’t falter. ‘Is he being literal? Perhaps his heightened senses are picking up the herbal tinctures I use in my dreamless sleep spell?’ She simply hummed in response.

The house was big and beautiful, filled with art, greenery, and signs of life, and she felt some part of herself start to relax.

“You are the one they call the Raven Queen?”

“A name I did not choose for myself. But yes, that is what they call me.”

“Does the name displease you?” he asked.

She hummed noncommittally again, and said, “You can call me that, if you like.”

He led her into the drawing room, where about a half dozen people were waiting for them. The light crystals were very dim, with most of the illumination coming from a roaring fireplace. A couple of those within were servants, and the others were likely high-ranking members of Lynwood’s organization.

Two chairs were aligned against the wall near the fireplace, larger and more ornate than the rest of the furniture in the room, like thrones in comparison. A woman prognos with her eye scarred out stood closest to the chairs, while the others stayed a couple meters away.

‘Is it right to call her a “woman,” when she’s not human? But “female” just sounds like I’m talking about an animal, and she is a person. Do prognos, or other species, have their own terms for man and woman?’ Siobhan wondered.

Lynwood led Siobhan to the chairs, but as soon as they drew closer the eyeless prognos gasped and recoiled.

Siobhan felt the increased pressure on her anti-divination ward and fed more power into it through the Conduit she had hidden inside the lip of her boot. ‘She must be using a divination spell to sense the world around her in lieu of her lost vision. I can only hope she doesn’t notice anything strange about me.’

Lynwood stared at the woman, who ducked her head and murmured an apology. He looked to Siobhan with a touch of renewed wariness, then took one seat, offering Siobhan the other. “This is my sister-by-choice, Gera. Would you like refreshments, Queen of Ravens?” he asked.

One of the servants immediately stepped forward, offering a plate of wine, cheese, and fruits.

Siobhan waved the servant away. She was too nervous to eat, and it didn’t seem like something people would tell stories about the Raven Queen doing, anyway. “My thanks, but no.”

Lynwood shared a meaningful look with one of the others standing to the side.

Siobhan hoped she hadn’t offended him.

“We would like to thank you for agreeing to meet with us.” Lynwood motioned to the other servant, who hurried forward and kneeled before the two of them, holding a tray with three wooden boxes on it. “We were not sure what tribute you might find preferable, so we prepared a selection. Please choose whichever pleases you best, Queen of Ravens.”

The servant opened all three boxes with the slow fanfare that signified treasure. His fingers were trembling faintly, and he didn’t dare to meet her eyes.

Siobhan had to hold back a gasp of avarice as she saw what the Nightmare Pack was offering her, simply for her presence. It might be rude, but she could take one of these items and walk away without fulfilling whatever request they had.

“Phoenix ashes,” the servant introduced the vial in the first box.

Phoenix ashes were an incredibly rare spell component, used in powerful healing, fire, and even, supposedly, spells that could effect one’s destiny. Most famously, they were said to have been used by Myrddin to resurrect his recently-deceased lover. There were only a few grams within the vial, but if the ashes were what they said, she could sell each gram for at least a hundred gold, and maybe more to the right buyer.

“The wolf-pelt of a skin walker,” he said when opening the second box.

This was less valuable, monetarily, but just as rare, and usually not something you could buy on the open market, or even the black market. The animal-form pelts of skinwalkers were usually burned with their users, when the person died. Prepared properly, they could give someone a lesser version of the animal-transformation skill of the skinwalkers themselves. Used as a component in other spells, they could tame some of the rarer and more vicious beasts, or be used in binding the most powerful of familiars to a witch’s service.

The last box was a black stone polished into the shape of a flattened oval, about one-third the size of Siobhan’s palm. When the firelight hit it, a six-rayed star of light shone out of the depths of what she suddenly realized was a gem.

“A black star sapphire,” the servant said, darting a glance at her.

She’d never seem a gem of any kind that big, but she’d heard of star sapphires. They could be used as components in space-bending spells of various kinds. She’d heard a story of a king’s messenger who used a black star sapphire to step between the shadows, traveling faster than any mortal man could otherwise, bearing a message from his king all the way to an allied kingdom in the space of a single night, and then back again the next.

She couldn’t properly judge how much it would be worth, especially in Gilbratha, but estimated it would normally be less expensive than the phoenix ashes but more valuable than the skinwalker’s wolf-pelt. But what drew her to it wasn’t its properties when used in spells.

It was the fact that sapphires were one of the gems that could be used as a passable replacement for celerium as a Conduit. And with the current prices of celerium, it was likely that other gems were also rising in worth. If it was natural, and not thaumaturge-created, it might even be the most expensive of the three. Most thaumaturges had trouble duplicating the same level of quality that was found in nature. Gems increased in price exponentially with their size. Like all other substances besides celerium, a sapphire wouldn’t be as efficient, and would heat after extended, heavy spellcasting, and be more likely to shatter under the strain. Still, this one was large enough that it had to be better than her old Conduit. ‘Several times better, in fact, if I estimate correctly,’ she thought.

Siobhan hesitated between the phoenix ashes and the black star sapphire, trying to weigh which was worth more in the current marketplace conditions. If Conduits weren’t so expensive, it would have definitely been the phoenix ashes, but the lack of supply changed things. And more pressingly, she wanted a Conduit.

Professor Lacer had lent her one, but it wasn’t hers. If he ever took it back, or something else happened to divest her of it, she would be reduced to relying on her useless, dinky backup again. If she took the star sapphire, she would have security. It was even something that most people wouldn’t immediately associate with the word “Conduit,” since it wasn’t celerium.

She had been through enough in her life to know you couldn’t rely on anyone else or the things they gave you. One could only rely on themselves and what they had the strength to take.

‘If I take the ashes, seventy percent of the selling price should still be enough to get me a better backup Conduit than the one I have now, especially if I can sell my current one for anything close to what I paid for it. However, word of phoenix ashes being sold would definitely spread, and I’m not sure how the Nightmare Pack might feel about me immediately exchanging their gift for money.’ She looked to Lynwood and the others, but didn’t have the skill to read their expressions.

‘If I take the sapphire, what about Oliver’s cut? I could probably convince him to let me pay it off slowly, but if not, seventy percent of the sale price would still get me a backup Conduit, if not one quite as powerful as the sapphire itself. I also have to consider how distinctive the sapphire is. It cannot be used in both my identities.’

In the end, personal desire won out over considerations of greatest utility. The star sapphire called to her. It was as simple as that. She reached for the polished gem, feeling its cool, smooth weight on her palm. “This tribute pleases me,” she said.

Lynwood and Gera glanced at each other, despite her lack of eye.

‘I hope they’re not upset that I chose what might be the most valuable among the three,’ Siobhan thought. There had been a lot of subtle looks between her hosts, and it was a little worrying that she couldn’t decipher the silent conversations they seemed to be having around her, about her.

‘Was it a test? I suppose we’ll see shortly if I failed. In any case, I’m not giving my new Conduit back.’

Lynwood turned back to her. “There are rumors about you and your formidable abilities. I wonder if you could help me judge the accuracy of these rumors.”

‘So now we finally get down to it. Best not to brag too much, so I don’t have to live up to unreasonable expectations. Still, the Raven Queen has to be worth the tribute they just paid to have this meeting.’ Rather than volunteering information, she nodded, as close to regally as she could manage. “Ask.”

“I have heard you take another form, one composed of the wings of night herself.”

Siobhan was conscious of Gera standing right beside them. While the blinding of the eye would have made it more difficult for the woman to use her divination abilities, it was obvious by the continued pressure on Siobhan’s divination-diverting ward that the woman was not crippled by this. She might know if Siobhan lied.

So Siobhan said, “I do take another form, but I fear the details of the rumors you’ve heard are…somewhat exaggerated by retellings and the imagination of fanciful minds.”

“Men say that those who earn your wrath have tortured dreams, and that those dreams only grow stronger with time until they start to seep into reality.”

‘That sounds like a dreamless sleep curse and the hallucinations that come with extreme fatigue.’ She shook her head. “Perhaps some of the weaker-willed people who have made themselves my enemies have nightmares, but that is only a measure of their own poor mental constitution. I have laid no curses. Well, not within Gilbratha,” she amended. Shortly after Ennis retook guardianship of her in her youth, she had placed a weak curse on the threshold of a particularly dislikable young man’s house.

“But your magic has no need of the glyphs and symbols that the humans use to ground their spells?” Lynwood asked insistently.

‘Is he trying to confirm that I can cast esoteric spells?’ She tilted her head to the side, confused. “I can channel magic through the modern spell arrays, but in truth no magic of any species requires glyphs and symbols. They are an aid, a powerful one, and as my…well, let’s call him my grandfather—would have said, oftentimes a crutch. I am not powerful enough yet to freely cast whatever magic might come to mind, though I do have a few tricks that need no written Word.”

“You are young, still?”

She was growing even more confused. ‘That should be obvious. He’s looking right at my face. Maybe he’s wondering if I’ve used glamours or rejuvenating spells? He thinks maybe the Raven Queen is an older woman pretending to be young? It would explain the ridiculous rumors about me being so capable.’ She gave a single nod of agreement. “Young enough,” she said, trying for some sort of cryptic middle ground. “These questions are not the reason you requested my presence,” she said, keeping the uncertainty out of her voice and making it a statement instead.

Lynwood looked to Gera again, then back to Siobhan. “You are correct. I apologize for my circuitous interrogation. We have need of someone with power over the domain of sleep. When we heard about you, we thought perhaps you could help where many of our more traditional methods have failed.”

“I do have some knowledge in that area,” she admitted, “but not all things are within my power. Please be more specific.” If they wanted her to go dream-walking or some such, she would be of little use, but ironically, she did probably know more about sleep-related spells than most professionals, due to her personal interest over the past many years.

Lynwood motioned to the door which had been closed behind them, and one of his people standing off to the side opened it, ushering in an old maid holding the hand of a young boy, who looked to be between eight to ten years old.

“My son cannot sleep,” Gera said softly.

Siobhan looked between the boy and Gera, but failed to see a resemblance. The boy looked almost like a normal human, having two eyes on either side of his nose instead of one in the middle of his forehead. Except for the abnormal paleness of his skin and the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, he would have been unexceptional.

‘He must not be a full-blooded prognos,’ Siobhan assessed. “He is your biological son?” she asked.

“Yes.” Gera nodded, motioning to the old maid to step back.

Siobhan’s eyes widened as the boy’s skin glimmered ever-so-faintly from the light of the fireplace shining directly on him. ‘Not only part prognos, then.’

The boy blinked sleepily up at her, expressionless.

“The boy is dying,” Lynwood said. “All mortal beings need to rest. With every passing year, his dreams grow stronger, and without the ability to block them, he grows wearier and weaker.”

The boy didn’t seem to find this news surprising, still staring at her while blinking slowly.

“You want me to stop the boy’s nightmares?” Siobhan asked. The sides of her mouth twitched, and she clamped down on the bubble of amusement trying to rise up through her chest at the absurdity of the situation. She knew plenty of spells for that, sure, but she hadn’t even managed to stop her own nightmares.

A note from AzaleaEllis

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Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-61-to-slumber-but-not-rest/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 61 - To Slumber but not Rest

Siobhan

Month 12, Day 20, Sunday 6:25 p.m.

“Not nightmares,” Gera, the prognos woman said. “Visions. My son is part prognos, part sylphide, and as you might have noticed, he carries a drop of fey, too.”

The fey ancestry was the source of the shimmer of the boy’s skin. ‘A member of the fey hasn’t been seen for centuries. Some of the books even say they’re extinct. And a partial cambion, too, from the Plane of Water?’

Siobhan could guess part of his problem just from common knowledge. The sylphide were powerful, humanoid elementals from the Plane of Air, given to song, laughter, and knowledge carried on the wind. Combined with the predisposition for divination that the prognos had, and the strangeness common in all the stories passed down about the fey, it wasn’t surprising that the cambion child had powers beyond his control. “Tell me more about the visions,” Siobhan said.

Gera spoke. “He has had them since he could first speak. Maybe before then, too. They come to him on the wind, incomprehensible pieces of the present and past. They are incoherent, but intense. When he is awake, he can mostly block them out. Only a few of the strongest slip through. His abilities are not like my own, and not like the sylphides we have invited to see him, either. They are a curse,” her voice broke, and she pressed a hand against her face, taking deep breaths.

The boy looked to his mother, then slowly back to Siobhan, a tiny hint of a frown between his brows.

Lynwood took over while Gera worked to regain her composure. “Some of the supposed experts we have contacted have suggested that the visions may become more coherent in a few decades, when he has reached maturity. He grows slowly, slower even than the prognos, and as time passes the strength of his visions is outpacing him. They plague him even when he is awake, and rouse his mind from sleep like a beast harrying his limbs.”

Gera raised her head. “The healers say that he will die if he cannot sleep, but they have no long-term solution to the problem.”

The healers were right, according to everything Siobhan had read on the subject. She peered at the boy assessingly, watching every slow blink and muffled flicker of emotion as he listened to his mother and uncle pronounce his fate. “What has been attempted to cure him?”

Gera took a deep preparatory breath. “He has seen half the healers in the city, it seems, and some experts in non-human physiology and divination as well. Most have been completely useless. They’ve cast spells and given potions to calm him, to put him into a deep sleep, to keep his mind active and in control while he sleeps, to suppress divination abilities, to ward off nightmares, and even proscribed such treatments as bloodletting at his energy points to release ‘bad humors.’ He’s had healing potions and revivifying potions. There were a few who said he was cursed or haunted and tried to release him from this. One suggested we place him in a large, completely sealed room to cut him off from the flow of the wind.”

Taking a hint from the tone of Gera’s voice on the last sentence, Siobhan said, “That did not go well. Did any of these treatments show promise?”

His mother smiled wryly. “You are correct. The sealed room caused him severe panic attacks, and by the time we realized what was happening, he was almost insensate with fear. It took him months to recover from that incident.”

“The man was punished for his incompetence,” Lynwood murmured, and Gera nodded.

“Some of what once worked has lost its efficacy as he grows older,” she continued. “When he was a toddler, the calming magic was enough. When that grew insufficient, the sleep magic took over. Keeping his mind active while sleeping was a particular disaster. Suppressing his divination abilities was…unpredictable. Sometimes it seemed to work, and sometimes it sent him into crazed raving and had him flailing about enough to injure himself.”

“We were worried it might have other ill effects,” Lynwood said.

“The bloodletting left him weak, but did not do the same to his visions. The healing potions helped for a time, if not helping him to sleep then reducing the effects of his fatigue, but eventually his body grew a tolerance for them. When attempts to dispel a malicious influence had no effect, most concluded that he was not cursed or haunted, but a couple of those who came to help told us that the evil influence on him was simply too strong to dispel.”

“Nonsense, if you ask me,” Lynwood interjected.

“What of the attempts to block nightmares?” Siobhan asked.

“Only mildly effective, at best. None has been beneficial in years. We were told that my son would die within the year if we could not find an effective treatment. There have been some more…radical suggestions, but I would not maim my son or curse him for life if there is any other option. Currently, we give him a powerful narcotic potion meant to cause the sleep of the living dead. We commissioned a master alchemist to modify it so that its effects are strong, but fast-fading. It does allow him to rest, but…” Gera looked meaningfully to her son, who was swaying on his feet, his eyes trailing through the empty air as if watching something invisible to the rest of them.

‘Hallucinations? If he’s to that point, he does indeed need urgent help.’

“But too deeply,” Lynwood finished. “He is insensate for twelve or more hours at a time, and often soils himself while he sleeps if we do not have someone watch over him to relieve his bowel and bladder with spells while he cannot do it himself. And when he wakes, he is groggy and clumsy the rest of the day, almost as if he has not truly rested at all.” He nodded meaningfully to the boy, and Siobhan realized that perhaps some of his daze was not from lack of sleep, but a side-effect of the potion.

Lynwood added, “His mind and emotions are muffled, except for sudden, wild flares of emotion. He fractured a rib in a sudden laughing attack last month, and his nursemaid swears she saw him about to stab a knife into his own abdomen the week before last. This sleep of the dead is a stopgap measure at best.” He reached out for Gera’s hand, squeezing it tightly while he turned to face Siobhan more fully. “This is my sister by choice, rather than by blood. The boy is my nephew. The Nightmare Pack would be grateful if you would grant us this boon and help him.”

Siobhan took a long while to think. While she hadn’t the deep pockets or connections of the Nightmare Pack, she too had consulted healers and shamans and anyone Ennis had access to that they thought might be able to stop her nightmares. All had failed, and over time, through endless trial and error and sheer desperation, she had developed her own spell to deal with the problem. It was only partially effective, but better than anything others had offered, and cheap enough to cast that she could actually afford to do so. However, it sounded as if the boy’s condition was worse than her own, and she wasn’t even sure that her dreamless sleep spell would stop visions.

However, her research had taught her a lot about sleep, and one of the things the prognos woman had said had sparked an idea in Siobhan’s mind. Sleep was mysterious, at best, even to the most learned of healers and researchers, but it seemed clear that the body used it both to heal and to process, cataloguing the experiences and thoughts of the day. It allowed long-term memories to settle, and without it, dreams would start to slip into the waking world via the form of hallucinations.

However, she’d been restricting her own dreams for years now, and hadn’t had any problems with decreased brain function. Her mind was a steel trap. Of course, her dreams did manage to slip through after only a few hours of rest, so she was not suppressing them completely. That healing and revivifying potions had mitigated the boy’s problem, even for a time, showed that the most critical function of sleep was whatever it did to heal and effectively reset the brain, like recharging a battle wand.

She’d never been able to afford healing components for her own efforts. The closest she had come was coffee beans loaded with wakefulness magic, and that hardly counted. Siobhan’s fingers caressed her new black Conduit, fascination causing her thoughts to focus just on the edge of true Will engagement.

“Your son has no need of a sedative,” she said. “It is not that he cannot fall asleep, but that he cannot rest. He has fallen asleep over a dozen times since he came into the room,” she said.

She was sure he was falling into what the University’s library books had called “micro-sleeps,” with almost every slow blink. “He’s already exhausted to the point of death. At worst, he needs something to calm the fear and desperation that are likely making his visions worse.”

“Will you help, then?” his mother asked.

Siobhan hesitated. “I cannot cure him,” she said. “Because he is not sick.”

Gera’s knees buckled, and she caught herself on the edge of Lynwood’s chair with a whimper.

Siobhan lifted a hand in a calming gesture. “He must learn to master his own nature, either through age and experience, or through practice and discipline. But I have several ideas for another short-term solution, one that could give him a semblance of normalcy and the time to learn that discipline before the visions once again outgrow him.”

“Yes,” Lynwood and his sister both said, almost simultaneously.

“I will design something that your people should be able to handle even without me,” she said, as an excuse for why she wouldn’t just be free-casting some spell that would have the boy dreaming of frolicking in a meadow. “After all, I cannot attend to the boy every night. I assume you have access to resources like components from the Elemental Planes?”

They both nodded readily.

She wasn’t surprised. After all, Liza could access components like that, and if they were willing to go to such lengths as described for the boy, the cost of extra-planar components wouldn’t bother them. “Good. We will attempt the simplest of my ideas first, to judge if my theories are sound. Take down a list of items and bring them to me here. Gather a handful of thaumaturges, too. At least three, at most…however many you can gather, as long as they are competent and can be trusted.”

Lynwood waved to one of his people who had been standing silently by the side, and the woman hurried to grab a scroll and a fountain pen, leaning over a side table, ready to write.

Siobhan listed her requirements. “Crystal—preferably clear, uncut quartz. Also amethyst and polished moonstone. Eagle or gryphon feathers, from a creature too young to have mated.” She herself used eagle, but gryphon feathers would likely be more powerful, and they could afford them. “Strong, clear liquor. Some herbs, these should be fresh: Valerian root, preferably grown in a place where human footsteps do not often pass, night vanilla, chamomile picked at sunset, lavender grown in a place that has a frequent northern wind, and poppy flowers, as pale in color as you can find.”

The specific guidelines on the growing and harvesting conditions of the components might or might not make much difference—she couldn’t get a clear answer on that from Pecanty—but she needed all the help she could get, and hopefully the extra effort of gathering components that matched her specifications would make her seem more legitimate. People valued what cost them, after all.

Seeing that the woman was scribbling frantically, she continued. “You will want to create a permanent Circle and spell array, but for tonight bring me wax from the Plane of Earth and the powder of all the gems I mentioned, plus either gold or diamond dust. Finally, something from the Plane of Radiance, still-living. A small star-maple sapling would do. If you cannot find that, then any slow-growing plant from the Plane of Radiance might do as a substitute. A beast core or three will power it all.”

The woman scribbled a little longer, and then finally looked up.

“That is all,” Siobhan said.

With a nod from Lynwood, everyone but himself, his sister, and the boy rushed from the room.

Siobhan stood, moving forward and reaching out a hand to the boy’s shoulder, steadying him. “What is your name?”

“Millennium,” he said in a small voice. “But everyone around here just calls me Miles.”

“Miles. Go find a chair and rest. In a few hours, you will sleep without dreams,” she said.

He stared back at her as if to assess the truth of her words, and though his eyes had trouble focusing on her face, they didn’t slide away from her under the compulsion of her anti-divination ward. “I hope so,” he said, full of vibrant emotion for the first time.

She hoped she could keep her promise. She knew objectively that she might not be able to, but the energy and focus she felt at the prospect of a problem to solve, given all the resources Lord Lynwood could provide, including other thaumaturges to supplement her immature Will, and a Conduit that would no longer hold her back… She believed she could do it. She was hungry for it.

“Get me paper and pen,” she ordered, walking over to one of the tables.

Lord Lynwood’s sister complied, and with only a bit of focus remaining on keeping her ward up, Siobhan turned the rest of her mind toward creation. ‘A modification of my own dreamless sleep spell. Better components, more power, and with a healing factor. It needs to be actively cast for the whole duration of sleep, rather than placed and released like I do with my own bedding. If I can improve his rate of regeneration while he sleeps, simply boosting his own natural processes, perhaps he won’t need as many hours, and there will be less chance of him growing a tolerance to repeated healing spells or potions. Alas, if only I could get someone to cast this spell on me…’

She looked up some time later, a finished spell array fresh under her pen, to find herself surrounded by scribble-covered papers, her hands smeared with ink, and her fingers cramped from writing.

Lynwood’s people had returned, and brought with them almost a dozen other people—likely the thaumaturges she had requested. One of the other tables was covered with spell components, and among them sat a small star-maple sapling in a pot. The sheer efficiency was almost astounding. She couldn’t have been working for more than a couple hours.

Siobhan pried open her fingers to release the pen and stood.

The other members of the room quieted their low murmurs and turned to face her quickly, some squinting at her and some not even attempting to meet her gaze.

“We have gathered everything you ordered,” Lynwood said.

“We will be casting what I suspect is a newly-created spell today,” she said to the newcomers. “If any of you are not comfortable with your ability to do so without endangering yourself or your fellows, please leave.”

There were a few shuffled feet, but no one walked out.

“These are the best thaumaturges among my people,” Lynwood said. “They will learn and obey, at your discretion, Queen of Ravens.”

Siobhan tried not to smirk at that. ‘Too bad I don’t have a group of sorcerers to boss around on a daily basis.’ She realized soon after thinking it the folly of that wish. ‘No, wait, that might actually be horrible. Most people are imbeciles. I don’t want to be stuck leading a group of imbeciles who can’t do anything without constant instruction.’

“Follow along, then,” she said. “Nothing we do tonight should be beyond your comprehension or abilities, and I do not enjoy repeating myself.”

First, they made the crayon stick to draw the spell array with, mixing the wax with the crystal and gem powder. They’d provided both diamond and gold dust, so with mixed feelings of heartache at her own inability to afford such things and pleasure at the chance to use such fine components, she added both to the wax crayon. The Circle and Word array drawn with it would handle more power than something simpler or cheaper, though not as much as a permanently engraved array made of solid precious metals. As she mixed the wax with the multi-colored dust, she channeled her Will in the same way she would when making a potion, every component touched with magic and intent.

Then, waving a hand for the others to clear a large spot on the floor and bring in a mattress, she drew the array, every glyph and angled line touched with her Will. There was no energy to channel into this, no active spell, but her grandfather had taught her that there was more to magic than the parts that were easiest to quantify.

Next was the herbal tinctures, drawing out the oils through crushing the plant matter and soaking it in bottles of alcohol.

‘Process matters. Magic may be a science, but beyond our understanding it becomes an art.’ She explained this to those watching her work, not bothering to watch to see whether they understood what she meant, or if perhaps this was such obvious knowledge that every competent sorcerer started implementing their Will long before they actively cast a spell, at least when it was really important.

They placed the mattress in the center of the large spell array, and the components in the outer Circles. Siobhan walked along the whole thing, inspecting the lines and glyphs for damage or mistakes, and explained, in as much detail as she could, the purpose of all the interconnected pieces.

She stopped at the head of the mattress, motioning for Miles to climb onto it. “Most important in all of this is not the components or the power. It is your Will, tuned perfectly. Think on the spell till you feel it in your belly and the dark places of your mind. We will begin casting in a few minutes. I will join you, but merely as a guide. You will provide the impetus on your own. Discuss amongst yourselves,” she said with a wave of her hand.

She rolled her shoulders, the thrill of magic a delight that made her bones itch and her thoughts bloom. She turned to Millennium, climbed onto the mattress, and sat next to him.

She spoke in a low voice, soft enough not to be heard over the talking of the others. “Can you cast any magic, Miles?”

The boy, more awake than he’d been before, despite the late hour, shook his head. “Not yet. I’m only ten, and my mom says its not safe if the visions make me lose concentration. I could hurt myself or someone else.”

Siobhan herself had cast her first spell at the age of eleven, a simple levitation spell on an acorn, under the watchful eye of her grandfather. It had been a bit early, but he was insistent that only stupid, immature children needed to wait till the traditional age of thirteen to begin an apprenticeship. It was lucky, because if she had waited, she might never have had the chance to learn from him at all. “You’re not afraid of magic, though, right?”

Miles shook his head quickly, but paused with his mouth open, suddenly hesitant. The silence drew on.

“You’re a little afraid?” she guessed. “Because of your visions and everything they’ve been trying to fix them?” She gestured to Lynwood and the boy’s mother, who were both watching them intently from across the room. “Which hasn’t been so pleasant, and sometimes, has been quite torturous.” She herself had taken a couple years off practicing magic after the…incident that lead her father to taking over his duties as a parent again.

Miles nodded. “They’ve been talking about you…whether to call you here or not. They’re afraid of you. But they’re afraid of what I might do if they don’t fix me, too. And I’m dying,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Tonight will not hurt,” she said. “And it will not be frightening, either. At the very worst, nothing will change and you will wake up as soon as your visions slip through. But if things go well, you will wake up in the morning feeling better than you have in a long time. To make sure you can fall asleep, I want to try something.”

“Okay,” he said in a small voice.

She knew that sometimes when she was exhausted beyond all reason, it actually became harder to fall asleep. “I’ll need you to sit in my lap, with your back against my front.”

Slowly, awkwardly, he moved to climb into the scoop of her crossed legs. His small body was cold, and faintly trembling, either from the chill or sheer exhaustion.

She reached her arms around him, touching her middle fingers to her thumbs, with the large black Conduit gripped to her palm by her pinky and ring finger, a little awkwardly. She pressed her hands against his sternum.

Miles copied her.

She took a deep breath, and let it out with a deep hum, like Newton had showed her.

As soon as Miles caught on to her rhythm, she began to cast the vibrational calming spell on the both of them. The spell wasn’t meant to work on someone else, but with him being so small and close and going along with all the prerequisites except for actually casting himself, it wasn’t that hard to bend the magic in this way.

A few minutes later, Miles was slouching against her limply, his eyes closed and on the brink of sleep, the only indication that he was still awake being the purr-like sounds coming out of his throat along with her own deep hum.

She released the magic, settling him back on the bed and drawing a thick blanket over him to hold in some warmth. She sent a servant to grab a wrapped, hot brick, and then tucked it next to the boy’s feet so it could warm him up slowly.

Without further preamble, she announced, “It is time,” with what she hoped was sufficient gravitas.

The other thaumaturges quickly moved to stand at equal distances around the outer Circle.

She moved to the head of the bed and, with a finger dipped in herb-infused alcohol, drew a small Circle around the boy’s head, straight on the pillow and over his blanket. Aloud, she walked the others through the process as she cast her normal dreamless sleep spell, which would facilitate Miles falling asleep, but probably wouldn’t keep him that way.

Then, she stepped back to the head of the larger Circle drawn on the floor. For Miles, they would be actively casting through the night, keeping him asleep, dreamless, and facilitating his body’s natural healing process.

She pulled her hood up to cover her face. Her ward remained active, but she reduced the attention and power she was channeling into it. Her mind couldn’t handle the split concentration when casting something new like this, even with all the others to provide power and stabilize the spell.

Siobhan was the first to start casting, drawing upon the trio of beast cores sitting within one of the component Circles for power. She channeled it with ease through her new Conduit, as smoothly as the one Lacer had lent her.

The other thaumaturges joined in, one by one.

Siobhan thought she could feel it when Miles fell asleep. Slowly, she increased the amount of energy flowing through her Conduit and the lines of the spell array, drawing on the star-maple for healing, and the other components for dreamless sleep. Her companions did the same, till the air thrummed faintly against the hair on her arms and the array began to glow.

At this rate, the boy would have slept for the equivalent of two or three days by the time the sun rose, without the accompanying problems with pent-up bodily processes that would have normally interrupted such a long rest.

After about half an hour, when she was sure the others had the hang of it and was starting to feel the crush of true fatigue herself, she released her grip on the spell and stepped back. The spell array flared for a moment with inefficiency, and she frowned. ‘I was channeling under three hundred thaums, at best. The spell shouldn’t have been so strained by my departure.’ She looked suspiciously at the others who were still casting.

Lord Lynwood and Gera were standing a few feet away, staring avidly at the sleeping boy. They both turned their attention to Siobhan as she moved toward them.

Gera’s scarred, blind eye was weeping, and she bowed deeply before Siobhan could say anything. “I thank you,” she choked out.

Siobhan was too tired to go through the long-winded standard niceties. She’d been brewing all day, and after this, she just wanted to collapse into her own bed. “You were lucky that this is my specialty.”

“Is it working, then?”

“It seems so. The spell does not force him to remain unconscious, so if his rest were being disturbed by visions, he would wake. You will need to have someone cast this on him every night for the time being. It need not be this large a group, after this first time. Millennium will wake rested and will only need maintenance going forward. One or two moderately powerful thaumaturges should be enough. However, none of them are particularly good at this spell. I doubt a lack of practice is the problem. I have a number of suggestions.”

“Speak them,” Lynwood said.

“The boy should be trained. Give him physical exercise and mental as well. Exercises that focus on clarity could be useful—some call it meditation. They could be helpful, if he can master them deeply enough, and he need not actively channel magic to learn that. As for your casters…”

She sneered. “Keep them awake, like the boy has been kept awake. When they are truly desperate for sleep, only then will they understand how this the spell is properly cast. When he has rested, they will be able to.”

Lynwood frowned at them. “I will do as you say, Queen of Ravens.” He hesitated, obviously wanting to speak.

She waved an impatient hand at him.

“Will depriving them of rest work, rather than simply make them more likely to lose control of the magic? This spell you have designed…is it meant to be cast by someone without your particular advantages?”

She sighed. “If your people are so incompetent that a little fatigue has them mis-casting, you should replace them. I hear first term students at your Thaumaturgic University deal with such conditions on a regular basis. This spell is not special. It is not even particularly difficult. It works as it does for me because I am always exhausted. I know what it is to be desperate for oblivion.”

Lynwood and Gera bowed again, said some more words of thanks and praise, and in a moment when no one was looking at her, Siobhan strengthened the force of her anti-divination ward. Its effects seeped into the physical world so well that she was ignored as she left the building.

Outside, she smirked up at the University atop the towering white cliffs to the north of the city, visible by their light crystals twinkling in the dark night like so many stars. She broke one of her bracelets to let Katerin know she could finally stop scrying for her.

‘That should fortify the Raven Queen’s reputation. What a fruitful evening.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

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Chapter 62 - Cold Sweat

Gera

Month 12, Day 20, Sunday 11:30 p.m.

Gera was the first to realize that the Raven Queen had left. They had all been distracted for a moment, watching her son Millennium sleep with relief, and sometime while they had all forgotten to think about the unsettling creature, she had disappeared. It was almost like the stories, the ones told in the small, remote villages, among the creatures with long memories and uninterrupted oral tradition, and among those skinwalkers who hadn’t forgotten that their other form was as much a part of them as the human one.

Gera, at least, was more convinced than ever that they had called upon a creature of Night.

The stories were ancient, and the names given to the mischievous, sometimes benevolent and sometimes horrifically vengeful shapeshifting creatures of dream and shadow were inconsistent. The stories of their abilities and physical characteristics were also inconsistent, and to be truthful, Gera had long thought them only fanciful children��s tales, meant to amuse, thrill, and frighten.

It was Lynwood who had been hopeful when he heard the rumors, but Gera now saw that though the tales may have been twisted over time with the retelling, they had some basis in truth.

When she pointed out their missing guest to her brother-of-choice, they sent their people who were not busy with the casting to search the mansion and grounds for signs of her, but all came back with nothing.

Gera found the Raven Queen’s disappearance almost as relieving as it was frightening, though she had to tamp down the little fear at the back of her head that said the creature might simply have disappeared from their perception and be watching them even now, hidden in some shadow.

She sidled closer to the ring of spellcasters standing around her son, examining his face for signs of distress. She’d been frightened when the Raven Queen had enfolded Millennium within her darkness and began to produce that deep, harmonized hum. Even the thought of it raised the hair on her arms, and she rubbed them briskly to force away the feeling.

Her brother placed a cloak around her shoulders. “Miles is unharmed. Perhaps you have gone so long without seeing him peacefully asleep that you forgot what it looks like,” he said softly.

Gera pulled the cloak tighter around herself. “Requesting an audience with her was dangerous. It was more of a risk than we realized.”

“It was worth it,” he said, gesturing meaningfully to his nephew. “But, yes. I found her…unsettling. Her gaze was black. Empty, almost. I had to force myself to meet it, but for more reason than simple fear. All my instincts told me to look away, to ignore, to forget. That the Raven Queen was utterly inconsequential, which was even more frightening as I knew it to be untrue. You were startled when you sensed her, too. What did you see?”

Gera’s eye had been brutally wounded when she was younger. Though she no longer had her physical sight, that did not stop her from being a prognos, and she had learned to make up for it with a specialized divination spell. In some ways, the spell was more powerful than sight, as it did not rely on light or angles to gather information. Everything within her sphere of influence was known to her, from every angle, with an emphasis on even the smallest movement. Her new sight lacked only color.

She shuddered at the memory of the Raven Queen walking up to her that first time. “To my senses, she was an empty hole in the world.”

Her brother’s eyebrows raised.

“She could be felt by where she wasn’t and seen through her effect on the things around her. Not directly.”

“She was very much present to my senses. She smelled of the same herbs used in the spell for Millennium, but underneath that… Very hard to differentiate and explain.” He breathed deeply, as if her scent still lingered. “It was like darkness, and old blood, and the smell of the air just before a spring thunderstorm. It was my first reassurance that she was more than a powerful witch or sorcerer. Next was the feathers growing out of her scalp, woven into her hair, which was no natural color. It shimmered blue like the oil-spill iridescence of a raven’s feather. And the eyes—too dark, like she hadn’t realized humans have both iris and pupil and forgot to include the iris.”

“With the way she slipped away, I suspect she can choose whether to make herself manifest at all, and if so, in what form,” Gera murmured.

“She came to the front door. Most of the stories say they enter houses through the night wind blowing through a window or through the shadows stretching under the doorframe. She said it would be rude to do that.”

Gera snorted. “Well, she said that she was young. Whatever ‘young’ means for one of her kind. Perhaps she has a better understanding of our modern sensibilities.”

“Or she was being mischievous. She has displayed a penchant for the dramatic.” Lynwood smiled, sharp-toothed.

Gera did not copy him, still on edge. “She was pleased with the stone? I would not want that ‘mischievous’ nature pointed toward Millennium.”

“Yes, the stories are correct on that point, it seems. I was slightly worried when she refused our food.”

“It is good we took the time to contact a lore-master before requesting an audience,” she said.

“Indeed.” The smile slipped from Lynwood’s face. “I shudder to think what she might have done if she was displeased. I’ve heard rumors on the street about what she’s capable of. I wonder how Lord Stag managed to make her acquaintance.”

They were silent for a few moments, and then Gera said, “We should deepen that alliance. With the Verdant Stag.”

Her brother looked at her searchingly for a few seconds, then nodded. “Yes. We should.”

A note from AzaleaEllis

This was a short chapter, shorter than I like any chapter to be because I like to feel I’m giving my readers value every week. Because of that, I’ll be posting a second chapter this Sunday, to go along with Gera’s Interlude.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-63-theoretical-exercises/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 63 - Theoretical Exercises

A note from AzaleaEllis

As promised, a Sunday bonus chapter. If you haven't read the regular Thursday chapter yet, you'll want to go back and do so. Enjoy!

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 23, Wednesday 10:45 a.m.

The first half of Sebastien’s school week passed rather uneventfully. There had been no more scrying attempts. She wondered, hoped, that the coppers might be waiting for Eagle Tower to be repaired. If she were exceedingly lucky, and she barely dared to wish for it in case of disappointment, her blood would have been lost or destroyed in the explosions, leaving them completely without recourse, and her, safe.

‘In any case, I cannot do a reverse scry to retrieve or destroy it unless they resume attempts. So other than Oliver’s tendrils looking into how one might steal or destroy official investigation evidence, I’d be best-served focusing my attentions on something I can actually control.’

Without anything to do about the scrying attacks, she’d returned to her previous mission. Solving the other big problem—her lack of time and energy.

In Natural Science on Monday, Professor Gnorrish had no experiment waiting for them.

Instead, the blackboards at the front of the room were covered with chalk diagrams and charts. “Some of you may question why we spend so much time and effort on the Natural Sciences trying to increase our understanding of the world, when there is nothing transmutation can do that transmogrification cannot. Others have wondered the same. They’ve done experiments, and I believe the results speak for themselves. Those of you who mutter among yourselves that this class is useless, that wonder why you should learn these things when they have no real utility, who have no desire to discover all the irrelevant details about how things truly work…” He turned to the blackboards. “The Natural Sciences have value beyond themselves.”

Sebastien was already beginning to decipher the significance of the data behind him, extrapolating meaning from the labels.

“We will go through the studies that prove this today,” Professor Gnorrish said. “In our first example, researchers took a baseline sample of the subjects casting the color change spell. As I understand, you all have recently practiced this same spell in your class, Introduction to Modern Magics, so you should be familiar with it. Researchers quantified the efficiency of casting, the area effected, and the resistance of the new color to change.” He pointed to one set of data on the graph behind him.

“Then, they had the subjects cast an analogous color-changing spell, using dye and their understanding of light. Transmutation instead of transmogrification. They measured the same metrics as before.” He pointed to a third set of data. The performance was noticeably poorer than the previous attempt.

“When they had a proper baseline, the researchers put the test subjects through an intensive course on color and light theory. They then had the subjects cast the transmutation spell again. As you might guess, they improved dramatically.”

Sebastien’s heartbeat was like a slow thunder rolling through her body. Her sense of time slowed as she realized what was coming next and started to extrapolate what it meant for her.

“Then, they cast the spell again, this time using the principles of transmogrification. This was not an increase in sheer power. It was an increase in skill. As you can see, learning to understand what they were trying to achieve, even when casting with a transmogrification spell, created a marked increase in every single metric. This ranged from a five percent overall improvement to, in the most strikingly affected subject, twenty-three percent.”

Professor Gnorrish was uncharacteristically somber, staring out at them. “If there are things which our greatest arts and all our power cannot achieve, we must study the underlying principles until we have revealed that which was once a black box of unknowable phenomena. Only then will we surpass the previous limits of our race.”

‘This is what I need,” Sebastien thought. ‘It’s what I’ve been missing.’

Professor Gnorrish spent most of the class going over similar studies, and as excited as Sebastien was by the topic, she had trouble focusing on it past her own racing thoughts. ‘I need to learn more about the human brain, and what exactly happens to it when we sleep.’

As soon as the bell rang to announce the lunch period, she went straight to the library and pulled all the books she could find on the subject. A quick skim showed which ones would be useful, and which were completely beyond her current standard of comprehension. She checked out a full dozen, and had to take most of them back to the dorms because it was too much to carry through the rest of her day.

Practical Casting ended the school day with another fascinating lecture from Professor Lacer about mental exercises they could perform before casting that would improve the clarity of their Will. She had already been doing much of it, but Lacer seemed to have a deeper and richer understanding of, well, everything than she did.

Afterward, Damien and Sebastien met Newton near the eastern edge of the Menagerie, surrounded by trees and plants that would shield them from curious eyes.

Sebastien was conscious of the nearing deadline to pay Newton for a week of work. It wasn’t that she begrudged him the payment. No, he had obviously taken the task seriously. He gave them an extensive written log of Tanya’s actions accompanied by a quick verbal report of the highlights, every other day. He deserved to be rewarded for his diligence. It was just that she wished the payment didn’t have to come from her own pocket, even if the funds had been provided by Oliver. Once the coins were in her hands, she felt pained parting with them.

“She went to her dueling club yesterday,” Newton reported, “and I couldn’t follow her there. I’ve listed some of the other students that are also in the club who she seems friendly with. And I learned that she’s looking to change her student aide department next term. Rather than working with incoming students, she’s interested in a move to the History department. Which is reasonable, because it’s less work, but it’s unusual to change departments mid-year.”

“Good work,” Sebastien said, slipping Newton a small fabric pouch filled with his payment.

Newton nodded with a smile, tucking the pouch away. “I’m off to catch her at the library. I’ve got student to tutor, but she’ll be around, too.”

As Sebastien and Damien headed for the University’s main building which held all the classrooms, the Citadel, Damien said, “My friend, Rhett Moncrieffe, is a member of the dueling club. He’s practically obsessed. Perhaps I can sit in on one of the sessions, and if that bears any fruit, either we bring in another informant or one of us joins the club?”

Sebastien nodded, a little frustrated at the idea of adding one more thing to her plate. “Let’s keep an eye out for anything interesting in the History department, too. What’s the specific post she’s angling for? Would she gain access to any otherwise restricted magic or sections of the University? Is there anyone helping her to get the job?”

“This would be easier if either of us was a little less conspicuous,” Damien said. “It’s too likely that otherwise unremarkable snooping or questioning will become the topic of gossip with one of us involved.”

‘He’s not wrong,’ Sebastien admitted.

Setting aside the frustration threatening to dampen her mood, she stopped by the dorms to pick up some of the reference books she’d dropped off and made her way back to the library.

She waited till no one seemed to be looking, then used her pass to the low-security restricted section to go down the locked door to the underground levels. Her pass was only good for one of the many rooms below, and she was careful not to get lost.

After Damien had noticed her coming out of the Citadel’s second floor, she’d wanted a more private place to do anything truly questionable, and she couldn’t take any restricted texts out of the library, anyway.

The aroma of old paper, parchment, and leather covered dust and the faintest hint of dampness kept carefully controlled for the sake of the books. She breathed it in deep, then exhaled into the solitude, smiling a little to herself.

Her shoulders, which she hadn’t even realized were tight with strain, slumped with relief even as she did the same into an old wooden chair at the corner of the room. After a few moments of stillness, she got up and retrieved a half-dozen more books from the shelves without even needing to read the titles.

The light crystal near the door wasn’t bright enough, so she took out her bottle of moonlight sizzle from her satchel, giving it a good shake and setting it on the table.

Her new sapphire Conduit was pressed into the lip of her boot, which was slightly uncomfortable due to its size, but the best place she currently had for it. ‘Perhaps some sort of leather holster that I could hide under my clothes,’ she considered. ‘That would keep it against the abdomen, or maybe the small of my back.’ All that was needed to use a Conduit was skin contact, but in an emergency, holding it in the hand always made channeling easier, so she didn’t want to make it entirely inaccessible.

Having a Conduit as well as a suitable backup meant one less problem.

Of course, she still had a baker’s dozen remaining.

She was as exhausted as ever, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, felt herself straining and fraying at the edges under the stress, the school workload, Professor Lacer’s extra exercises, and her lack of sleep.

Her identity as Siobhan Naught was still wanted by the coppers for theft and blood magic.

She was destitute when compared to the heightened expenses of living in Gilbratha, and on top of that, including the exorbitant interest, owed over a thousand gold crowns to a local criminal organization. A criminal organization that required her to perform undetermined favors to pay them back.

That same criminal organization that technically owned thirty percent of her beloved black star sapphire.

She had a priceless, stolen, encrypted book that she hadn’t made the first bit of progress decrypting.

Her father was in jail, and at some point would likely be sent to work in the prison mines.

She still had nothing concrete on Tanya.

And Professor Lacer, probably the smartest, most sheerly capable thaumaturge in Gilbratha, seemed to think she was a reckless imbecile. And she couldn’t refute him, even in her own mind. Which was almost the worst of it.

But with her magic free and access to all the knowledge that seemed to seep into the very walls of the University, she felt like she could handle any problem the world could throw at her…even if she knew that wasn’t objectively true. ‘If I could get rid of the need to sleep, or even reduce it to a few hours a night, I’d regain all those lost hours. The creature that takes over my need to sleep will need to take over the healing and processing for me, too.’ She needed to learn as much as possible about how the brain worked and sleep’s effect on both it and the body. If she could amass a huge wealth of knowledge, even if it wouldn’t directly fix her problem, it might be enough to let her cast a spell to fix the problem with transmogrification. ‘I suspect I’ll still need some downtime every night, whether that’s true sleep or simply a forced rest to allow my mind to recover, and every few days at least I’ll need to let the spell drop entirely. It’ll have to be in artifact form, since having to hold an active spell twenty-four hours a day somewhat defeats the purpose…’

She was engrossed in her thoughts, scribbling away under the slowly fading light of the potion bottle, when the door on the far side of the room—the other door into the room, the one that never opened—opened.

She didn’t jump or jerk. She froze.

She parsed the shape of Professor Lacer’s knee-length, dark jacket out of the corner of her eye. When she turned slowly to look at him, he was already staring at her.

She didn’t try to cover up what she was working on, hoping that a lack of guilt would keep him from feeling suspicious. She could have gotten a pass to a minor restricted section from any of the Professors. She might have every right to be there.

Lacer seemed to dismiss her, walking through the bookshelves until he found whatever it was that had brought him to the room. But instead of leaving, he stopped in front of the table she was sitting at. His presence was like an unstable tower blocking out the sun, impossible to ignore, giving the person below the faint sense that it might come crashing down atop them at any moment.

“Don’t be rude, Siverling,” he said, motioning to the tabletop, which was mostly covered in open reference texts and pieces of paper. “Clear some room.”

She raised her gaze to meet his, not sure whether to be terrified or relieved by the sardonic quirk of his eyebrow. She scrambled to clean up the area in front of him.

He sat, placing the book in his hands on the table. He picked up her blue potion bottle, shook it to make the light brighter again, and began to read.

Sebastien stared at him for a bit, but he ignored her, turning the pages of his book just barely too fast, enough to make her wonder if he was actually reading.

Feeling awkward, she returned her gaze to her own work, and after a couple minutes of awkwardness that only she seemed to feel, she decided she was being ridiculous. ‘If he’s about to get me in trouble, sitting here like a scared rabbit won’t stop him.’ She picked up her pen and took a note about the different chemicals the brain replenished during sleep from the book in front of her.

Almost a half hour had passed in silence like this, and while she still thought the whole thing was strange, she’d lost her anxiety and was engrossed in study.

That was when he finally chose to speak. “How are you enjoying your classes?”

She looked up at him, but he was still staring at his book, which he was already halfway through. “I love them,” she said.

“Really? All of them?” His tone was inscrutable, but if she had to guess she would say he was skeptical.

She hesitated, but then straightened, her shoulders going back and her eyes narrowing. “Well, Pecanty is a bit…”

Professor Lacer looked up to meet her gaze.

“Stodgy. Set in his ways. Damien called him ‘uncurious,’” she said.

“Uncurious,” he repeated. “Do you agree?”

“He discourages unorthodox questions and associative thinking,” she said, her lip curling up into a sneer. “He’s a pompous academic more concerned with looking like an intellectual than exploring the depths of the field in which he is—supposedly—an expert.”

“Are you sure?”

She didn’t look away. “Yes. I’ve tried to ask questions and start discussions several times, only to be condescended to as if I am some daydreaming child too immature to realize that original thought is so naive.”

Lacer nodded. “Pecanty is an idiot. He was hit by an experimental curse when he was younger. It turned his brains into taffy. He was saved, but he’s always been a bit off since then. It seems that having new thoughts is difficult for him.”

Siobhan couldn’t tell if Professor Lacer was joking.

His eyes were wryly amused, but his voice was serious. “But you are not incurious, it seems?” he asked, looking pointedly to the books and notes in front of her. “I hardly think this could be work for any first-term class. Independent project?”

She ran her tongue across the back of her teeth. “Theoretical exercise. I’m very curious.” She tried to give her tone the same ambiguity that his had, deadpan and yet not seeming as if she expected him to take her words at face value. Her heart was beating a little harder as she waited for him to react.

“I’ll take a look,” he said, holding out an expectant hand. “I am very good at theoretical exercises. Maybe I can help.”

Slowly, she gathered up the loose papers she’d accumulated over the last few days of study and handed the stack to him.

He read through it almost as quickly as he’d read the book, his eyes flicking over her notes, questions and sloppy spell diagrams. “It is binding spell at the base,” he murmured. “Not a vow, but an ongoing exchange?” He read for a while longer, then set down the stack. “Getting rid of the need to sleep? A little clumsy, but an intriguing idea. At least it is not some continuous stimulant spell. That would have killed you. Hypothetically.”

“And this?”

"It will have an inherent loss of efficiency over time, but as long as you only run it sporadically, the idea has merit. I would tell the average first-term student off for being an insufferable dimwit if they told me they were preparing to cast this. You need more than power for this. It will require finesse. I see the spell is broken into multiple steps, and you’ve noted extended casting times for a stronger buildup of power, which is smart. I should almost think you have experience casting similar spells.”

She kept her face impassive. She’d modeled parts of this spell, including elements of the structure and the “connection” glyph, from what she could remember of the Lino-Wharton messenger spell.

Perhaps it wasn’t a subtle dig, because he continued with barely a pause. “Still, I would warn against any student at your level attempting this spell. The thaum requirement would be rather high.” He stared at her pointedly, a reminder that he thought her a reckless dimwit. “Especially if they had no practice casting spells of a similar nature, either by the whole, or by similar component factors. The magic would be wild with its newness, the lack of history. The study you are doing there”—he nodded to the biology book in her hand—“would be useful, but not enough without power.”

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll need to practice binding and healing spells, then. And get my Will capacity tested again.’ “I understand,” she said aloud.

He seemed skeptical, but returned his eyes to the papers, continuing his dissection. “However, it’s obvious you don’t have any true foundation in spell theory. Your base symbol is the pentagram, which might be the most common for more powerful transmogrification spells, but for applications like this, it is not the perfect channel by itself. I would suggest incorporating a hexagram, for its connection to wisdom, intelligence, and the transfer of aid.”

She leaned forward, grabbing her pen to make a note. “Okay, that makes sense. But why not an octagram? This is an exchange spell. Wouldn’t the octagram’s association with balance be more useful?”

“In truth, several of the symbols are associated with balance. The octagon and octagram, specifically, are more suited toward stable systems. The balance between creation and exchange. While the octagon might be useful in creating something like a miniature ecosystem spell with little loss, the octagram is associated with true balance between creation and destruction. Justice. What people from the East might call karma. This is not a true equivalent exchange.”

He gave her a pointed look, and she nodded in concession.

“And because you agree with that statement, something might go wrong if an inexperienced spellcaster like yourself tried to cast with an octagram. Doubly so if you felt any guilt about what you were doing to the other party.”

She felt the urge to shift in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable, but there was no accusation in his gaze.

“However, the clumsiest part of this is your use of glyphs. The Word is crude, obviously cobbled-together by someone with a limited pool of experience. There are better choices to describe this spell, by far.” He pulled over one of her papers and motioned impatiently for the pen, then scribbled a quick series of glyphs and their connotative translations.

Sebastien stared greedily at the alternative piece of the Word he’d just provided. “Forceful-given-transfer-gift, sleep and dreams. Forceful-taken-transfer-gift of harmony, rest and healing.” A couple of the glyphs were foreign to her, and he’d arranged them in a different order. It was the core of the spell, really. She would write the entire process and instructions out longhand as well, for stability, but the glyphs channeled and molded magic in a way that letters and words didn’t. With a simple scribble, Professor Lacer had just greatly decreased her chances of losing control of the spell. “Thank you,” she said simply.

“Come to me again when you have made further progress with the spell design. I will check it over for you. And…I hope I do not need to make this statement aloud, but your common sense has not impressed me nearly as much as your Will. A spell like this, even if cast between two perfectly consenting parties for the purpose of research, could be classified as blood magic.” His eyes were lit from beneath by the bottle of moonlight sizzle, giving his gaze an eerie quality. “The world is not kind toward…curiosity in this direction.”

She stared back silently at him for the space of a few breaths. She realized that the electrical charge in the air was a silent compact between her and Thaddeus Lacer, youngest free-caster in a century, one of the most powerful casters in the country, and likely also the most interesting. The man about whom she’d searched out any stories or news articles since she was a child…approved of her efforts. He was helping her, and warning her to keep it between the two of them—to keep it from those who might not understand.

She felt impossibly, entirely awake as she nodded back silently.

He stood abruptly. “Wait here.” He walked away, exiting through the door she’d come in. He returned a few minutes later with one of the thickest books she’d ever seen. He placed it with a thud on the table before her.

“A Comprehensive Compendium of Components,” the cover read in gold-embossed leather. She opened the book to a random spot, flipping carefully through a few pages. The illustrations were painstaking, with the occasional gleam of precious metals or powdered gem, the letters looping and ornate. Each page had concise but detailed information on a component: different stages of growth, best conditions to harvest them for varied effects, and the various spells they were commonly—and uncommonly—used in. Many of the components were familiar, but even more were not.

She stopped on a particularly gruesome page. Harpy intestines were definitely not on the list of approved spell components. Particularly not when used in a ritual while the harpy was still alive. While not considered human by the Crown-approved definition, they were close enough that many components from their body parts were illegal. ‘That’s why this book is restricted. It truly is comprehensive.’

“You should be able to find the proper components and Sacrifice within,” Lacer said.

“My pass doesn’t allow me to check any restricted books out, and there’s no way for me to put this back wherever you took it from,” she said.

He picked up the book, and, unsmiling, turned to the nearest bookshelf. He leaned down and inserted it between two other books on the lowest rung. “The library has no wards or alarms against mis-shelved books. A dreadful oversight. Sometimes books even get…lost.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “Quite dreadful. Dangerous, even, for the impressionable minds of young students.”

For the first time she’d seen, he actually smiled, a smirk stretching across his face. It disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. “Remember to submit your efforts to me for oversight when you are ready,” he said. Without waiting for a response, he took the book he’d originally come to the room for and walked out through the same door he’d entered through, disappearing somewhere into the network of underground rooms.

Sebastien sat staring at the closed door, with all the resources she needed to design the spell that would do away with her need to sleep now at her disposal. That was fantastic.

But she was almost more thrilled to have somehow gained Professor Lacer’s approval.

A note from AzaleaEllis



Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-64-snowfall-spilled-secrets/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 64 - Snowfall & Spilled Secrets

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 24, Thursday 11:55 p.m.

Sebastien retrieved the Comprehensive Compendium of Components from the shelf after Professor Lacer left.

There was an index at the front of the book that gave page numbers by keyword, which was immensely helpful as it meant she didn’t have to flip through a few thousand pages one-by-one. She spent the rest of the evening reading through the pages containing relevant keywords. Only when the library closed at ten o’clock did she leave reluctantly. She didn’t want to find out what would happen if she was still inside a restricted section after that.

At best, she would simply be trapped in the room all night and have to find a way to deal with an extremely full bladder without the proper facilities. At worst, it would set off an alarm and she would be found.

Thursday dawned gloomy, cold, and still. Great cumulous masses of clouds hung low and heavy in the sky. The air held the tension of a bent twig just about to snap, without the wind that was normally a constant at University altitude.

Shortly after the third class of the day, which was most people’s last, the clouds broke and began to dump feather-like snowflakes. There had been several sprinkles of snow already that year, but none so perfectly suited to playing, and students both young and older spilled out onto the grounds, getting into snowball fights and creating things out of the malleable material.

Sebastien watched from a bench under a tree, working on homework from one of her less rigorous classes under the cover of the evergreen canopy. At times, such ruckus and noise would have distracted and irritated her, but at the moment she only smiled slightly to herself. Things were going well for her.

Too well to be bothered even when a snowball went flying by her head.

Two witches competed along with their familiars to create the best-looking sculpture of a dragon, packing the snow even higher than their own heads while their familiars did the more detailed carving with tooth, claw, and magic.

A sorcerer furrowed a complicated design into a swath of clear snow, taking great care where he placed his feet and snappishly shooing away any students who threatened to get close. After about a half hour of work, he took out a little house make of sticks and what Sebastien thought must be a beast core, because there was no other obvious source of power, and placed them as components. Then, with a dramatic lifting of his arms and rumble in the air, the snow within the Circle rose and compacted into the shape of a small, simple house, complete with chimney and square openings for windows.

This drew cheers and applause from those who had been watching, and the sorcerer invited one of the girls from the crowd inside, which drew a blush from her even though the “house” was small enough that they both had to duck to get through the opening for the front door.

‘That looks useful,’ Sebastien thought longingly. ‘I wonder if it could be cast on dirt, too. I wouldn’t have to sleep in the open the next time Father and I are traveling between cities and there is nowhere to beg shelter, or no coin to pay for it.’

With a belated jerk, she remembered that she wouldn’t be traveling with Ennis ever again. ‘Still, that doesn’t mean I’ll never be somewhere without a proper roof over my head,’ she reasoned. The spell was likely energy-hungry, but if she was able to draw out the casting to match her Will’s capability and power it with, say, a campfire instead of a beast core, she could still cast it. It would just take much longer and be less dramatic. With ingenuity, even an Apprentice-level sorcerer could cast interesting magic.

The snow house demonstration lead to a general interest in fort-building, which lead to people forming factions and attempting to bypass or destroy opponents’ forts while protecting their own, with some sort of freeze-tag and flag capturing mechanics mixed in.

When she finished with her homework, Sebastien had a quick dinner and then again made her way into the library, which was uncharacteristically empty except for those huddling in the atrium to replenish their warmth after frolicking in the snow.

The books in the small restricted room below kept Sebastien company for the next handful of hours, and she finished a preliminary version of the sleep-proxy spell that incorporated Professor Lacer’s suggestions in an updated casting structure and spell array.

Of course, she would have him look it over again before she actually tried to use it, but on top of all the studying into the Natural Sciences of the topic she still had to do, she also needed to practice binding and healing magic, make sure her Will grew enough to channel a more powerful spell like this, and get her hands on a few rare components, along with a couple ravens.

She would have preferred to avoid ravens, because of the whole “Raven Queen” thing, but they were well-suited to the spell, relatively easy to feed and care for, and could be found cheaply in most any magical market. It would be much harder to find—and then care for—a couple of raccoons.

Her most immediate problem was that she doubted she could afford everything the spell required, even though she’d purposefully chosen weaker, cheaper options where possible. ‘Well, I’ll have time to make a bit more gold before I’m able to cast it. I can gather the components slowly while I’m practicing and improving my Will. I’d bet there are some useful potions I could make for the Verdant Stag that require healing and binding magic.’

That evening, Sebastien was woken up after only a couple hours of sleep, about halfway through her first rest of the night. She checked the time, and found it was only a few minutes before midnight, which was also the official curfew. She was confused until she realized that the ward they’d set on Tanya’s door had just alerted. It usually went off several times throughout the day, but at set times.

Tanya had a small toilet in the corner of her room, so there was no reason for her to need to leave when all the University buildings were closed and all the students were in bed.

Sebastien sat up and tossed aside her covers, threw back the curtain enclosing her half-walled section of the dorm, and rushed to Damien’s bed.She clapped a hand over his sleeping mouth.

He woke up with an arching, futile gasp, scrabbling at her forearms with wide eyes.

“Shh!” she hissed. “Myrddin’s balls, you’re so dramatic, Damien. Get up. Discreetly.” She took her hand away slowly, watching to make sure he didn’t start screaming or flailing.

“Dramatic? I’m dramatic?” he ground out past clenched teeth, one hand pressed over his heart. “You realize the actual discreet way to wake me would have been a shake or whispering my name? Why do people keep doing this to me?”

Sebastien ignored him. “She’s leaving,” she whispered, already hurrying back to her own cubicle. She’d only deigned to wake him because she didn’t have any spell that could enhance her hearing well enough to spy on Tanya from afar. Otherwise, she would have preferred not to involve him.

Damien immediately understood who she was referring to. Behind her, he scrambled out of bed and began to dress with more haste and less silence than she would have preferred.

She pulled out the bone disk that would let her sympathetically track Tanya’s shoe and set up the tracking spell on the portable slate table with folding legs that she’d found in the abandoned classroom. Her little lantern was plenty of power for this simple spell, with Tanya not having had enough time to move very far from the dorms.

The tracking function itself consisted of nothing more than a stick in the center of the spell array, with one burnt end that would point toward the disk they’d put in Tanya’s shoe, like a compass. The stick spun to point north-west, vaguely in the direction of Eagle Tower.

Damien crouched down beside her, looking at the stick. “She’s returning to the scene of the crime,” he said in an ominous tone.

“Take over,” she said, moving to get dressed herself. By the time she finished, the stick was still pointing the same way. “We’re following.”

She led the way while Damien held the slate table, balancing it carefully so the spell components didn’t shift or fall out of the Circle. They stopped in the dormitory building’s doorway, looking out.

Outside, it was still snowing, though more gently than earlier in the day. The clouds had thinned enough to let in the light of the moon, but were still thick and low-hanging enough to reflect the lights from the ground back down. The University kept light-crystal lamps glowing around the outside of their buildings and along their cobbled pathways, lighting up the snow, refracting off the white flakes in the air, and then bouncing back down from the sky.

The world was aglow.

It was the kind of fairy-tale scene one could only experience within the cradle of a big city. In the wilderness, a cloudy night was the darkest black you would ever see.

Sebastien peered at the snow with some worry. If too much snow got on the spell practice table, it could disrupt the chalk array symbol and glyphs. And while perhaps they didn’t need the spell to find Tanya at all, because her footsteps were very apparent in the snow, their own footsteps would be equally noticeable if she came back the same way.

She turned around. “We can’t go out this door. We have to circle the building. Hurry!” She motioned for Damien to drop the spell, then grabbed the bone disk, slightly burnt stick, and the lantern off the folding table, tucking them away.

A couple minutes of tromping through knee-deep snow later, they made it back around to the north side of the dorm building, but stayed away from the lights of the building so that their trail wouldn’t be so obvious to the naked eye.

They made it to Eagle Tower following Tanya’s trail from fifty meters to the side, but contrary to their expectation, the trail didn’t lead to the front door.

In fact, it bypassed Eagle Tower entirely, continuing on past it.

Sebastien stopped Damien behind a tree, then quickly touched up the chalk spell array on the table and re-cast the sympathetic locating spell. “Just to make sure she isn’t cleverer than we thought,” she murmured. The twig pointed further to the northeast, the same direction Tanya’s footsteps continued toward. “The Menagerie,” she murmured.

“What could she be doing there?” Damien asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s a problem. There’s only one gate accessible through the student tokens.” The gates were warded, and would block anyone without a University token from passing.

He pursed his lips. “It’ll set off alarms if we try to jump the fence, and one of the groundskeepers will come to investigate. There are too many valuable things inside the Menagerie for them to be lax about thieves. But if we go through the gate, they’ll have a record of us entering right after her. If she does something like last time, we could be under suspicion.”

“That, too. But the more immediate problem is that I have to cover our tracks or she’ll see she was being trailed when she comes back through the gate and there are suddenly two more fresh pairs of footsteps in the snow. We’ll just have to hope she doesn’t give anyone a reason to look at the records. If she does, we can give a different excuse for our presence. You said students come here to harvest moonbeams and fairy wings, right?”

“Hallucinogens? My father would…” He grimaced and shook his head with a shudder.

She took the slate and chalk from him, and when they had made their way closer, turned around and set up a gust spell, which was a simple thing that did nothing more than shove air through the Circle as fast as she could power it. She’d used the same spell in her escape from the University on the day that had started everything, but the spell was common enough that she wasn’t worried about being recognized just for knowing it.

With enough force, she was able to blow up enough snow to cover their tracks, though the effort left her panting and sucked the little lantern flame completely cold with each burst. Luckily, the array on the bottom of the lantern allowed her to relight the wick with little effort. She was conscious of its light drawing attention to their position, and wished it had a way to darken or cover the glass. Damien was using his cloak to block the light, but it wasn’t perfect.

Once they reached the gateway and Tanya’s trail, they stepped exactly where she had, avoiding disturbing the snow until they found a good place to split away from her trail again. Sebastien found the whole thing rather irritating. ‘Would it have been too much to ask for Tanya to conduct her nefarious business at a more convenient time and location?’ she seethed.

Any appreciation for the outdoors was spoiled by the need to sneak through it. Her jacket was too thin, the knee-high snow fell into her boots and melted into her socks, and every accidental noise cut easily through the night air. With idle vindictiveness, Sebastien contemplated casting the only real curse she knew—a minor thing meant to make the victim attractive to flies and other biting bugs—on the threshold of Tanya’s door.

Finally, they found Tanya standing on a small arched bridge over a half iced-over stream. She stood with a man whose back was turned to them, but who still seemed strangely familiar.

Damien and Sebastien crouched behind a group of dingleberry bushes to watch, ignoring the offensive smell.

Sebastien ran through her memories like a bloodhound, tracking down the one that had caused a sense of deja-vu.

‘Munchworth.’ He had been the professor to meet her and her father when they first came to Gilbratha. He had laughed at even the idea of patronizing Siobhan through the University, which had likely been the catalyst for her father stealing the encrypted book out of spite. Munchworth had again almost stopped her from entering the University during the verbal examination, and would have if not for Professor Lacer.

The realization was almost enough to make her breathe his name out loud. She recognized the way he was constantly moving some part of his body like a nervous jitter. ‘I saw him here before. Weeks ago. And Tanya was here, too. I didn’t see them together at the time, but is it possible they were meeting? Is this a weekly thing? Did they meet here last Thursday, too, after she blew up Eagle Tower, and I just missed it because I wasn’t prepared?’

It didn’t take Damien long to get his hearing spell ready, his hands cupped behind his ears and carefully angling toward their targets till he caught the sound.

“She’s saying something about discretion,” he murmured, “I think she didn’t want to meet tonight.” His eyes widened. “And he just said that if the worst should happen, he’ll just tell people she’s his mistress. Unless she gets caught, in which case she’s his mistress who’s blackmailing him.”

Tanya’s body language grew visibly agitated, the line of her mouth harsh as she responded.

Damien turned to Sebastien. “She didn’t like that.”

Sebastien nudged him. “Stay focused.”

It took a few seconds for Damien to regain the right angles for his “ears” to catch their conversation. “…paranoia and trying to find an excuse to overstep their boundaries on sovereign land,” he said, his voice taking on a caricature of Munchworth’s tone. “We’re sticking to the idea that the Crowns just don’t like that the University is independent and want to ‘investigate’ the accident so they can get their men in where they don’t belong. Again. We’ve got them blocked, and we’ll keep them that way. Enough of the staff are on our side, and if it ever came to it, I think you’d find more than a few influential people want to limit the Crowns’ power.”

Damien switched to the stereotypical, sweetly high-pitched tone that men seemed to use whenever they were imitating women. “What about Westbay?” Damien’s eyes widened, but he didn’t lose focus this time. “If he mentions something to his Family about me being there…”

Munchworth waved his hands impatiently. “Proximity does not equal criminality. Especially because as far as our faction is concerned, there was no criminality. As long as you avoid being caught in a situation with no deniability, we can deny and deflect. You should be focusing on finding her. There’s a meeting soon, right?”

Tanya nodded silently.

“Here,” Munchworth said, shoving something into Tanya’s hands. “Go to the meeting. You might need coin to grease people’s tongues, if they’re not interested in the goods.”

She tucked what looked to be a full coin pouch away. “Our ‘friends’ might be a little reticent to just give away some of the stock.”

Munchworth snorted. “Then remind them who they’re dealing with. I want that book, Canelo. Spend what you need.”

“We need to be discreet, too. I’ve heard…rumors. She already gave me a warning,” Tanya said, absently touching her covered forearm. “I don’t want to give her a reason to come after me in the middle of the night.”

“Surely you don’t believe that drivel? The lower city is made up of uneducated peasants with Wills so weak they’ll be frightened of their own shadow. They make up stories to relieve the boredom and hopelessness of their existences. Perhaps your pedigree is showing through,” he said with a sneer.

Tanya didn’t respond.

“Find out what her connection is to those upstarts. It is your job to bring me solutions, Canelo. If you cannot do that, I may start to regret our arrangement.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” she said.

He chuckled. “You’ll have your assignment change next term if you can provide results. And a recommendation from me to any Master who’s willing to hire you, when the time comes.”

Tanya snorted as she turned away. “When the time comes…I’ll be the one hiring people.” Without waiting for him to respond, she trudged away.

Munchworth, muttering ungraciously to himself, waited a couple minutes, and then left in a different direction.

Damien and Sebastien stayed hidden until they were sure they wouldn’t be discovered, and then turned to retrace their own steps.

Just in case, Sebastien used the gust spell to erase large sections of their trail.

“That man was a professor, right? Who were they talking about? I mean, obviously the Raven Queen, but the rest?” Damien whispered as they walked between the trees, the dorm building visible in the distance. “Their ‘friends,’ and the ‘upstarts?’ What meeting?”

‘Probably the Morrows and the Stags. I’ve no idea about the meeting, but hopefully we can find out by following her again.’ Sebastien shook her head and said, “I don’t know. But that wasn’t just any professor. That was Munchworth. He teaches Titanic History and Lore, and…”

“He was involved in the theft,” Damien finished for her. “The Raven Queen and her accomplice were here for a meeting with him when they stole the book.” He was silent again for a while, then said, “I’ve been thinking. There seems to be a conflict between the University and the Crowns. Both of them are trying to find the book, right?” He looked to Sebastien.

Sebastien nodded.

“And neither of them wants the other to have it. And Munchworth mentioned that their ‘faction’ is keeping the coppers from investigating University matters. So maybe there’s internal strife, too. Is it possible that the University, or some part of it at least, ‘lost’ the book on purpose to keep it out of someone else’s hands?”

Sebastien kept trudging, her breath escaping past her scarf and hanging heavy in the cold air. She’d never considered that, but it did seem awfully coincidental that her father had managed to steal it in the first place. “It’s possible,” she said softly, blinking away the snowflakes melting on her eyelashes. “Would that be a simpler explanation than the alternative?”

Damien frowned. “The alternative, that a powerful, free-casting user of blood magic stole it?”

‘That a man with no magic at all managed to grab it in a moment of pique due to simple negligence on their part. Perhaps they were complacent, with it already so close to safety. That a young woman with only a few years of formal training managed to escape with it.’ “Yes,” she said aloud.

“I don’t know.”

‘I don’t know either,’ she agreed silently. ‘I don’t even know what’s inside the book, except for the amulet hanging around my neck right now. Could someone have sent Ennis to steal the book without him realizing it? Maybe they never planned on him giving the book to me and us splitting up.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe I’m reading too much into it. This isn’t the first time he’s stolen something, after all, and with all their questioning and curse-breaking, the coppers don’t seem to have found evidence of any nefarious influence on him.’

Damien was silent for a while, and then said, “We don’t have all the variables to solve the problem, yet. That’s what Aberford Thorndyke would say. Though he’d probably have noticed about fifteen different clues by now and would just need to put them all together in the big revelation.”

“Well, this is the real world,” she said wryly. “Aberford Thorndyke has the advantage of a writer slipping in little hints, arranging ‘coincidences’ in his favor, and making sure he has all the opportunity he needs to tie everything up nicely. Literal deus-ex-machina. In addition, there’s some hindsight bias at work. Once we know the answer, it seems like something a genius could have deduced, but in some of those stories, if you put down the book just before Thorndyke does his big revelation and go back through from the beginning trying to figure it out yourself, you’ll find that there is either missing information or other options that the evidence hasn’t narrowed down yet. But once you know the ‘correct answer’ it’s impossible to be truly objective about what the evidence points to. In some of the stories, Thorndyke’s conclusion seems to be geared more toward shocking and awing the reader with his intelligence than pointing toward a realistic culprit. I think I could argue convincingly against him on several of the cases I’ve read.”

Damien stopped to stare at her. “Really?”

“Of course.” She started to go into greater detail, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“No. I mean, you…You’ve, in your head, come up with arguments about who’s the real culprit. Which you would argue with Aberford Thorndyke about.”

Sebastien stared back at him, one eyebrow raised. “Well, if he’s wrong, he could be ruining someone’s life while letting the real guilty party go free.”

Damien stared at her for another few seconds, then clamped his hands over his mouth to stifle hysterical laughter.

Sebastien had to half-drag him back into the dorms to keep him from collapsing in snow. ‘Obviously the stress is getting to him.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-65-a-convenient-concoction/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 65 - A Convenient Concoction

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 26, Saturday 7:00 a.m.

Tanya did nothing suspicious on Friday, even in the dueling club meeting that Damien sat in on.

The weekend seemed the most likely time for the meeting Munchworth had mentioned, and while the three of them couldn’t keep watch on Tanya for literally all the hours of the day, they could try.

Sebastien, however, wasn’t willing to sacrifice her normal weekend activities just to spy on Tanya. She needed the gold that brewing for the Verdant Stag gave her, and she planned to search for the components she needed to cast the sleep-transferring spell. Even one week lost was a week that Eagle Tower was closer to being rebuilt, a week more of wasting time and energy scrabbling to keep up while struggling to get enough rest, a week more of getting closer to the kind of strain that would need more than a few days to recover from. A week more interest owed to the Verdant Stag.

Sebastien refused to let Tanya make things worse, not when she was so close to a solution.

Both Newton and Damien would remain behind, but she would be taking the linked bone disk with her when she left.

Damien argued with that, and while she agreed that it would have been better if they could both locate Tanya magically, he had the advantage of actually being able to follow Tanya physically. He also had Newton to help, and as big as the University grounds were, there were only so many places she could go. Out in the city, she could disappear easily.

Plus, Damien was in Divination class. If any of them could find her without help, it should be him.

Sebastien needed the disk more. She didn’t necessarily expect Tanya to leave, but since Sebastien had to, this was the most logical way to handle it.

And she was honest with herself—if not with Damien—that she also felt uncomfortable giving up the control the linked disk provided. It was illogical, but she couldn’t shake the fear that he might learn something very bad in her absence, if she wasn’t there to supervise.

‘If Tanya comes into the city, I’ll be able to track her to the Morrows’ hideout,’ she consoled herself, ignoring Damien’s frustration. ‘Damien doesn’t actually need to be there.’ She would search for Tanya every hour the other girl was out of her sight, and move to track her down immediately if the direction of the stick pointed in any unexpected direction. If something went wrong, Damien or Newton could alert her by breaking one of the bracelets she’d given them.

On Saturday, Sebastien went to the library to find healing and binding spells that she could practice, ideally ones that were alchemy-based so she could also get paid for them. The revivifying potion was close to healing magic, but not quite close enough to what the spell she was developing would do that she could be comfortable with only that as practice. What she needed was closer to the knit-knitting salve, but something stronger.

While the library was absolutely filled with scrolls, books, and other information-recording media, much of the most useful information was not available on the first floor, which was all the pre-Apprentice level students like her could access. Of what was available, many of the spells required more energy than she could channel or components she doubted she could easily access.

‘Call it paranoia, but this must be a conspiracy to keep knowledge out of the hands of those the University doesn’t trust. If, even after graduating with an Apprentice certification, a thaumaturge has had no access to more powerful or dangerous magic, not only does it reduce their threat level if they ever turn against the powers that be, but it also keeps them from channeling the kind of difficult, powerful magic that would keep their Wills growing to the level of a Grandmaster or Archmage. Without challenge, they will stagnate, remaining easy to control.’

Generalized healing potions were both difficult to make and very expensive, and in most cases, unnecessary. If you’d been stabbed somewhere that wasn’t immediately life-threatening, why use a forty-gold healing potion when you could use a six-gold blood clotter along with a five-gold revivifying potion and a six-gold muscle regenerator, then top it off with stitches and a bit of skin-knitting salve for less than another three gold? By using a solution specific to the problem, you could save about twenty gold.

If you could get potions at the Verdant Stag prices, you could save much more.

General healing potions were good for things that were difficult to diagnose, when you didn’t know what kind of ailment or injury you might encounter and wanted to be prepared for everything, or in the rare case that other treatments couldn’t cure your specific condition.

Or, if you were rich and just wanted to feel better right away.

A general healing potion could have saved Jameson, maybe even past the point that a blood clotter and flesh-fusing potion would have made no difference.

Sebastien found a minor healing potion that worked by boosting the body’s natural response, lending some of its own power to the healing and taking the rest from the stored nutrients and energy of the injured person. The reference text said the potion would struggle to fix anything larger than a moderate wound, which it defined as a small dagger stab in a non-critical place, a non-separated fracture in a single bone, or about six square inches of severe burn.

It took time to work, and it was apparently uncomfortable, but it could keep someone alive in an unexpected emergency, and she knew Oliver would be willing to stock the Verdant Stag and his enforcers with it.

However, the best part was that it was rated at a low enough thaum requirement that she could actually brew it.

It was actually much harder to find a binding spell that she could practice. Binding magic, at its core, was simply an ongoing restriction or exchange that used a living creature.

The blood print vow was binding magic. It didn’t force, but compelled, both parties to keep the agreement they’d made, in exchange for the same compliance from the other party. If either party broke the agreement, they would be punished with the release of their blood print to the other, for whatever use the wronged person desired. It was about as mutual as these types of spells could get, and even so, still blood magic.

Which should have been a hint to Sebastien how difficult it would be to find low-level binding concoctions for alchemy.

The Lino-Wharton messenger spell was binding magic. She gained control of the raven’s movement and senses, for a nominal exchange of the vitality and intelligence of the Sacrificed raven. The exchange was unequal at heart, and the ravens were necessarily alive during the casting and could not choose to refuse, another reason why this type of magic was so likely to be restricted.

A witch’s contract with their familiar was binding magic, and while the University didn’t focus on teaching witchcraft, it did have quite a lot of information about the training a witch undertook before binding a familiar. A book titled, Basic Contracts and Companions: Preparatory Exercises, held a lot of short-term contract spells that could be used on summons, conjurations, and even mundane animals that Sebastien would have been strong enough to cast.

But she hesitated to take that route, because all of the resources for the training would have to come out of her own pocket, and she wasn’t planning to delve further into the craft of the witch after she was good enough for the sleep-proxy spell. It seemed a waste, as much as any knowledge of magic could be a waste. By which she meant that really, she avoided that alternative mostly because she couldn’t afford it.

There was a potion, the draught of borrowed gills, which allowed someone to breath underwater by dropping a small, living fish into a mucousy concoction and then gulping the whole thing down whole. The fish was kept alive within a bubble of potion within the stomach for a few minutes, during which time the fish’s ability to filter oxygen from water was transferred to the drinker’s lungs. The fish died quickly, both because of the incredible strain of its inherent property being sucked dry by a much larger being, and because the protective mucous around it eventually gave way to the stomach acid and dissolved the fish alive. To avoid drowning when this happened, the drinker needed to exhale as much water as possible and immediately return to breathing air, likely accompanied by a horrible coughing fit and possibly other complications.

She was surprised to find this openly available, because according to the supposed rules of what constituted blood magic, this should have been illegal. Blood magic included, among other rules, spells that used a still-living being as a Sacrifice that would be harmed, or any magic that was unnecessarily cruel in execution or caused undue pain. Apparently, people didn’t care enough about the well-being of a common fish to ban the spell. Of course, that didn’t mean that she couldn’t still be accused of blood magic for casting it if someone powerful decided they wanted a reason to convict her.

It would probably have worked as a training spell, but she doubted she could get Oliver or Katerin to agree to buy it in large quantities. Still, she wrote it down in her grimoire. Gilbratha’s east side was sliced through by the Charybdis Gulf, after all. Perhaps there were uses for an inconvenient, dangerous water-breathing potion that someone would be willing to pay for.

Eventually, after spending half the day searching, she finally found a concoction she thought would work in Arcane Alchemy, Vol. III.

The group proprioception potion let everyone who drank from the same batch instinctively know where the others were for a period of time. It was not blood magic, because it did this by dint of the main component—a magical sea lichen that connected and disconnected any singular part of itself at will, still somehow communicating with the greater whole to capture prey and then confine it until it starved to death. The lichen fed off the nutrients of its prey’s decaying body, filtering them out of the water. In this case, the exchange given to the lichen for its properties was a simple sugar solution.

No one would complain if a lichen were used as a still-living component.

The potion would be useful for any stealth operations, but also in chaotic emergencies where one person getting separated and lost could be dangerous. Additionally, an instinctive knowledge of where everyone else in a combat team was could make a small group work much more effectively together. After all the trouble with the Morrows, she was sure Oliver would be interested in anything that could give his lesser numbers an advantage.

She checked to make sure Tanya was still studying with Newton on the library’s second floor before she left, and then made her way down to Waterside Market.

She didn’t have enough gold to buy all the components she would need for the sleep-deferring spell, but Katerin would reimburse her for any alchemy components used for the Verdant Stag, and Sebastien could at least compile a price list for the rest. While she was shopping, with each jingle of coins leaving her purse causing her a pang of regret, she wondered about the wards around the Menagerie.

‘If I could find a way to fundamentally change the nature of a harvested component, or disguise them within some sort of concealing ward, could I essentially have a free magical market at my fingertips?’

‘Don’t be too hasty,’ she warned herself. ‘Surely you’re not the first to have come up with that idea. The University likely has already patched the kind of obvious security holes that an amateur like me can think of.’

She bought the more common ingredients first, most from the relatively cheaper market stalls that didn’t ensure the same kind of preservation and freshness as the more expensive permanent shops. She went to one of the cheaper shops for the remaining components of the new potions she planned to brew that weekend. They also had a couple of the less expensive items needed for the sleep-deferring spell, which she still couldn’t actually afford.

The person working the counter directed her to a more elite alchemy shop a few blocks north of the market for the rarer components.

The inside was marble floors and dark wooden shelving, all polished to gleam in the light of the many spelled light crystals illuminating the shop. Components sat in the shelves, some behind protective glass or under preservative spells.

Sebastien found a small jar of water imbued with energy from the Plane of Radiance, a vial of moonseeds, and a tiny little jar holding the soporific pollen of an elcan iris. Each cost a handful of gold, but the shelves still lacked the most important components.

Sebastien went to the counter and waited for the tall, thin woman behind it to finish with her current customer.

“Welcome to my humble establishment. How can I help you, sir?” the woman asked in carefully cultured tones.

“Thank you. I’m looking for a sempervivum apricus, and if you have it, a mandrake root. Both still living, if possible. I didn’t see them on the shelves. Do you stock those components?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, I believe we have both in the back. I’ll need to see your thaumaturge certification, Journeyman or higher.”

Sebastien stared at her. No one else, not even the shop she’d just come from, had done more than glance perfunctorily at her student token.

“If you’re still an Apprentice, proof that you work for a certified Master is also acceptable,” the woman said.

“This is the first time I’ve actually been asked for that,” Sebastien said, giving her a sheepish smile. “I didn’t bring any proof with me.”

The woman’s mouth tightened, but she nodded, and said with some pride, “This shop abides by the laws. The bureau of magical oversight is too likely to audit sales of the type of components we sell.”

Sebastien didn’t hide her frown. “Well, I suppose I can’t purchase them at the moment, then, but can I at least inspect them? I need to report back to my Master. If he wants them, he’ll probably come back and buy them himself.”

The woman hesitated, but Sebastien just stared at her expectantly until she nodded.

The sempervivum apricus was a low-growing succulent plant from the Plane of Radiance. The shop owner brought out a small specimen growing in a pot. Its juicy leaves grew in complex rosettes, and tiny motes of light traveled beneath the semi-transparent skin along with the water and nutrients, barely bright enough to shine through the membrane.

It was one of the “low-light” things from the Plane of Radiance, which meant that with the proper conditions, it could survive on the mundane plane, though despite its label it preferred the bright sunlight and long days found farther south.

The mandrake root was similarly small, but its pot was much bigger, dwarfing the dark green, wrinkled leaves sprouting from the middle. The main part of the plant, the root, was covered safely by the well-packed soil. As if disturbed by the jostling of moving the pot, a faint, unpleasant sound filtered through the dirt and pot, making both Sebastien and the shop owner wince.

“How much?” Sebastien asked.

“Eighteen gold for the sempervivum, forty-three for the mandrake.”

The surprised rise of Sebastien’s eyebrows was real. “Really? My master said he got a sempervivum with two offshoots for fifteen gold last month. And he expected thirty for the mandrake. How old is it?”

“The mandrake is at least three years old. I assure you, my prices are fair. Supply for many components has fallen slightly, while demand, if anything, has risen. If your master isn’t interested, I’m sure I’ll find another buyer.”

Sebastien shrugged. “Well, I’ll tell him. Thank you,” she said.

With a slightly sour smile, the woman sent her off, returning the components to the back room.

Outside, Sebastien let out a slow breath, trying to force her shoulders to react. ‘That was close. If she’d known a mere student, uncertified, was trying to buy those components, would she have reported me?’ She shuddered. ‘Well, I didn’t give her my name. But if that’s how strict people are with the rarer, more powerful components, how am I going to get my hands on them, even if I do manage to save up the funds?’

On the way to Oliver’s house, she considered where else she might get those components. ‘Maybe I could ask Liza where she gets hers. Or, if that still doesn’t work, maybe I could pay her a small fee to purchase them on my behalf.’ The thought of how much the spell might end up costing her was depressing.

She was still scowling when she reached Oliver’s house, and she slipped up the stairs to his study before the servants could notice and delay her.

She knocked, shuffling the packages in her arms. “It’s me.”

“Come in,” Oliver called. He was sitting behind his desk with the ever-present pile of paperwork, sipping a large, steaming mug of coffee. He looked tired, but less exhausted than he had been for a while in the aftermath of the Morrows’ attack on his warehouse. He eyed her silently as she set up at the alchemy station against the wall. “What did you do with Lynwood?” he asked.

She paused in laying out the components of the minor healing potion. “Very fortuitously, Lynwood was interested in one of the only areas in which I have real expertise. His adopted nephew was having trouble sleeping. I acted mysterious, designed a spell to help the kid, and helped cast it for the first time to make sure it worked. Why, is he upset about something?”

“Very much the opposite,” Oliver said slowly. “So much so, in fact, that he sent you a gift to show his appreciation for your work.”

“Oh.” Suddenly remembering the other gift, she pulled the ovaloid, black star sapphire from her pocket. “Er, this is the tribute. I was hoping that maybe I could keep it, and be in your debt for the thirty percent cut? I’m in need of a Conduit, and this will help me to brew more doses at a time for the Verdant Stag. And avoid scrambling my brains into puree by accident,” she added dryly. “When my other Conduits sell, they should make up for a good part of your cut.”

“I think I can do you one better than that,” Oliver said with a small smile. “The impact of your meeting on Lynwood was better than I expected. In fact, he’s been increasingly accommodating in general. He was very insistent that I pass along his message of gratitude and friendship toward you along with the gift.” He pulled a small box out of one of the lower drawers on his desk.

Sebastien approached the desk, both curious and bemused. “I tried to be mysterious, like I said, and I kept the anti-divination ward up to keep them from looking or thinking too hard—I didn’t want them to be too observant and see through the facade—but I didn’t actually do anything very impressive.”

Oliver opened the box, revealing the two tiny, mottled eggs sitting on velvet within. “Pixie eggs,” he said.

Sebastien’s eyes widened.

He nodded, a wide, predatory smile slowly stretching across his face. “Unfertilized, but still fresh. Few in this city but Lynwood could get their hands on such a thing. Your ‘unimpressive’ act earned an unasked for bonus of approximately four hundred gold. Enough for me to take a thirty percent cut of both this and your new Conduit and still leave, minimum, a few dozen gold for you.”

She took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding, sending a flush to her cheeks.

“We’ll need to appraise the gem, of course, but if I can find the right buyer for these, it could even be seventy or eighty gold coming your way. I’m thinking of approaching Liza first. She’s a valuable contact that I want to cultivate, but mostly it would feel good to pry some of my gold back out of her greedy fingers.”

Sebastien grinned back. “That would be a boon from the fates themselves. Perhaps I could get some of the payment directly, rather than toward my debt? I’m working on a…special project, and some of the components are quite expensive.”

“Does that project have anything to do with the new components on the alchemy table? I recognize a couple that are generally used in regeneration spells.”

“Well, yes. I need practice with healing magic, and I thought you could use a cheap general-purpose wound healing potion. Your enforcers could carry it, and maybe some of the wealthier people in your territory could afford to buy it, too. I’ve also got the recipe and components for another potion I thought you might find useful.”

Oliver was curious, and after she explained the potions to him, they haggled a bit over how much the Verdant Stag would pay her to brew them.

As she returned to the alchemy station to get started, suppressing her smile of triumph, she asked, “I need a couple components that I can’t get without a University certification. Do you think Liza might know a place that doesn’t ask too many questions?”

“Most certainly. From my limited experience, you can buy almost anything in the Night Market. You might pay a premium for the lack of questions, but as long as you have the gold and you aren’t silly enough to get yourself stabbed and stripped of your valuables in a dark alley, that will be the place to go. Many of the shops require passwords or recommendations from a trusted customer, though. Ask Liza about it, but don’t pay her for the information.”

Satisfied that her problems were being shot down one by one, she searched for Tanya’s direction, which pointed north to the University, and then fell into the process of brewing. The healing potion came first, because it was the most difficult, and she wanted to be fresh while casting it to avoid mistakes. It was a bastard cousin to the types of healing potions that could regrow a chopped-off finger or refresh burnt and blistered skin, but it still took more power than her old Conduit could have channeled, and she felt her Will stretching to its limits.

An hour and a half later, she carefully portioned the regeneration-boosting potion into two small vials, feeling that foggy fatigue that came from concentrating hard for long periods of time. Two doses was so little that she had to be careful not to let the brazier beneath her cauldron burn too high in case she evaporated all the water and burnt the potion to the bottom of the cauldron, but it was almost more than she could handle.

It also made her more money in the same amount of time than any of the other concoctions she’d made.

Next, after another search for Tanya, she moved on to the other new potion, which gave a vague extra sense, like a group proprioception for every other person who’d swallowed the same batch. Each would know where the others were instinctively, even without being able to see them, like a person could tell where their elbow was, even in the dark.

Siobhan took her time reviewing the steps and the proper thoughts that would focus her Will for this type of magic, since it was well outside of her prior experience. She took some time to rest, then started brewing, again a smaller batch than normal, only three doses, but this time because she doubted how efficient her Will would be at channeling the magic.

‘I don’t really understand proprioception, and it’s hard to imagine gaining an entirely new sense. Maybe if I could test out a batch for myself I’d understand well enough to make it better the next time.’

This potion had a short shelf-life, so she couldn’t make it in bulk and just let the Stags stock up on it. But that was okay, because she didn’t have the time or Will capacity to make it in bulk, anyway.

She was starting to tire by the time she finished with that, so she made a batch of skin-knitting salve to be sold in the Verdant Stag’s alchemy shop. By then, the sun had gone down and the chill from outside was overwhelming even the roaring fireplace and the warmth from the brewing.

She ate dinner with Oliver, where he made her laugh so hard she almost choked on her food telling her a story about a childhood mission carried out with his older sister. They had banded together to get rid of a new governess who’d had differing ideas about ‘proper behavior’ for a young lady. He smiled fondly when he spoke of his sister, but didn’t say where she was now, and there were no stories about her as an adult.

Sebastien knew better than to ask.

After that, she went to The Silk Door, going through the transformation process from Sebastien to Siobhan in a way that still felt anything but routine, and left her disoriented with her body for a few long minutes.

Siobhan’s clothes still smelled faintly like the herbs and wax from the spell she’d cast on Millennium the week before, and she found it soothing. ‘No matter what body I wear, my mind and my magic are my own. My Will doesn’t change.’

Siobhan hailed a cheap hackney and rode it to a corner a few blocks from Liza’s house. She exited reluctantly into the cold, dirty streets to walk the rest of the way. ‘Being cautious is more important than being comfortable,’ she told herself, but it didn’t make the trek any more pleasant.

She climbed the rickety metal staircase and used the lion-shaped door knocker, but no one answered.

Somewhat gingerly, eyeing the animated metal lion with distrust, she knocked again, but still, no one answered. She was turning to leave, realizing with disappointment that Liza was either sleeping, ignoring her, or had gone out, when one of the bracelets on her wrist grew suddenly, uncomfortably cold.

She ripped it off hurriedly, worried that it would cold-burn her skin, then stared at the colored string wrapped around it.

This particular bracelet was linked to Damien.

Siobhan remembered she hadn’t divined Tanya’s direction in the last couple hours.

Fumbling with the need for haste, she crouched down at Liza’s doorway and set up the spell, which was already drawn in thick brush lines on a piece of seaweed paper. The spell pulled harder on her Will than it ever had before, probably because of her distance from the target.

For the first time that day, the burnt stick pointed in a different direction than north toward the University.

Siobhan stared at it, then let out a huge, disappointed sigh as she put away the spell components and headed out on a path to intercept Tanya. ‘Curling up in my warm bed with a book is not in my cards tonight, apparently. This better be good, Tanya.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Ratings, reviews, and comments much appreciated! The more you guys interact with this story, the more visible it will be to other people. Plus I love hearing everyone’s thoughts about what’s happening.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-66-an-interview/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 66 - An Interview

Siobhan

Month 12, Day 26, Saturday 7:15 p.m.

Siobhan only knew Tanya’s direction relative to her, not the other girl’s actual location.

After walking a few blocks away from Liza’s house, she hailed a shoddy, two-wheeled carriage—one where the driver didn’t sit underneath the fabric roof with her—and gave him directions.

She shoved her star sapphire Conduit into the lip of her boot, against her skin, to free up both her hands for ensuring the movement of the rickety carriage didn’t fatally disrupt her casting. Her watch fob Conduit was at the bottom of her bag, since even though it technically could be connected to Sebastien, she didn’t feel comfortable leaving it in her little closet at the Silk Door.

When the stick spun a sharply as they passed a street, she knew she was close, and got out, paying the driver with a silver crown from the purse Oliver had given her for investigating Tanya.

Stopping in the darkest corners to cast the compass divination spell was easy.

The only people still outside were the homeless, huddled around bins of fire or bundled up in ramshackle shelters built of trash and scraps. Some of the houses leaked a bit of flickering candlelight through their poorly-insulated cracks. Whatever streetlamps the city might have placed in this area had long been vandalized for the spelled light crystals within, which could be used personally, or more likely, sold for a few coin. Luckily, the moon was bright enough and high enough in the sky that she could still make her way, and her little lantern was ready if she needed it.

The scattered people still outside were mostly too miserable to bother paying attention, but those who did notice her eyed her with an assessing hunger that made it obvious she wasn’t safe.

Her alchemy athame was in her pocket, but it was such a small blade, and while Professor Fekten’s Defense class had beaten the stamina to run away into her, she had no skill with a blade and the little athame would be unlikely to defend her if she was backed into a corner.

The problem with sorcery was that it didn’t lend itself to instantaneous casting, for those without the skill to free-cast. Still, she had a dozen-plus useful spells already drawn out on seaweed paper in her bag, a handful of emergency potions, and if things got truly desperate the low light was the perfect setting to cast her shadow-familiar spell for the most dramatic effect.

She kept her shoulders back and walked without hurry, turning her cloaked, shadowed face toward anyone who looked at her a little too long. Her confident, aggressive body language seemed to deter any inappropriate interest, but she wished she had some divination magic to push against so she could activate the divination-diverting ward in her back and go unnoticed. ‘Hells, I would even appreciate Damien’s company right now.’

This part of the Mires stunk worse than anywhere in Oliver’s territory, and in the dark, she even stepped into a few patches of what she thought might be frozen human feces. ‘The stench would be unbearable in the summer. And the threat of disease… No wonder the Verdant Stag needs so many healing concoctions.’

After a few minutes of searching, she came upon a bright jewel of a street amidst the squalor.

Oh, it wasn’t rich or clean like the northern parts of the city, or the Lilies where all the Crown Families lived. It wasn’t even particularly bright. Its light came from open fires, lanterns, and a few spelled crystals mounted above the doors of the shops. But it was still awake and alive, even this far into the Mires after dark.

Siobhan looked around greedily, noting the riot of things for sale among the small wheeled stalls and in the grubby windows of the shops. Everything from questionable “meat” pies and alcohol to dried chameleon skins and a tiny, still-living squid in a glass jar. ‘Spell components. This is the Night Market,’ she thought with awe.

She gave her head a quick shake, reminding herself that she wasn’t here to sightsee or shop. She was following Tanya Canelo. ‘What reason could she have for coming here? Is she buying restricted components? Or perhaps it acts as a discreet meeting place with the Morrows? Munchworth did mention a meeting.’ Siobhan quickened her pace a little, searching for Tanya visually.

Not long after, she caught the quick flash of Tanya’s short blonde hair as the girl turned a corner ahead of her.

Siobhan followed with the best combination of stealth and speed she could manage, keeping her hooded face just a little turned away, only watching Tanya out of the corner of her eye just in case her target looked back to see if anyone was watching her.

Tanya led Siobhan to the edge of the Night Market where the lights and people grew more sparse.

Siobhan noticed Tanya slowing and ducked into the shadow of a doorway just before Tanya looked around apprehensively.

The girl pulled up her cloak, covering her head and short blonde hair, then withdrew something large and dark from her pocket and held it up to her face. After a few adjusting movements under her hood, Tanya stepped forward and knocked a pattern against a nondescript door.

Siobhan memorized the knocking pattern immediately.

After a few seconds, a little slot in the door that Siobhan hadn’t noticed at all before slid open at eye-height. Someone inside said something, Tanya replied, and then the slot closed and the door opened, allowing Tanya to slip inside.

Siobhan cursed internally. She’d been too far away to hear what they said, which could have been a simple greeting, but more likely was some sort of password.

After a few seconds of searching for any watchful eyes, she slipped closer, hiding in a nearby alcove that had been formed from a poorly-planned addition to an existing building. It provided just enough space for her to tuck away in the darkness, not quite perfectly, but hopefully enough, if she was careful not to move.

Over the next twenty minutes, ten more people came to the door, answered one of three phrases from the doorman with one of three other phrases, and were let inside. Each of them were wearing hoods, making their features impossible to see. Siobhan strained to memorize their voices, but was skeptical of how well she succeeded with a sample only the length of a sentence.

When a few minutes had passed with no more arrivals, Siobhan considered her next move. ‘Tanya is inside. I need to see what she’s doing. But even if I can get through the door, is it safe for me to do so? What if someone within notices that they don’t recognize me? What if they attack? Should I call Oliver as backup? But even if I alert him through the ward bracelet, how would he know where to find me?’ Without enough information about what was going on inside, what dangers she might face, she couldn’t make a plan. ‘But I can’t just wait out here when I know something is happening inside.’

She circled the building, searching for windows or other doors, but the windows had all been bricked over, and the back door was locked with a heavy iron contraption, bars inserted onto the wall on either side to withstand attempts at forceful entry. They had been careful.

She briefly stepped back far enough to see the roof, searching for a chimney. She had the wild idea that maybe she could climb onto the roof and listen in through the chimney, if the fire below wasn’t lit. But the br ick stack was smoking, and there were no good places to haul herself up onto the roof, which, on second inspection, was too steep to try and climb considering the snow and ice melted into the wooden shingles. She could imagine herself slipping and falling to the street, cracking her skull open against the cobblestones. She shuddered and vetoed that plan.

Siobhan resisted the urge to pace, her fingers flexing and reaching for her Conduit unconsciously, only to remember she wasn’t keeping either of them in her pocket.

Finally, she stopped, pulled the feathered hair ornaments Oliver had bought her for her meeting with Lord Lynwood out of one of her pockets, and slipped them on under her hood.

Then she walked around to the front of the building, and with her heart pounding and her head held high, she knocked on the front door.

The slot resolved from the wood as if melting away—some kind of magic—and then slid to the side, revealing a man’s eyes and bushy eyebrows on the other side. He squinted at her, moving aside a little to let some of the light behind him spill into her face, which she tried to keep as concealed as possible within the shadow of her hood.

“What kind of demon feasts on the corpse of a thought?” he asked.

“Speak not of such things lest they speak of you,” she replied.

His eyes narrowed at her and he stared for a few long seconds. Too long. “This is a private club,” he said finally, then shut the slot closed. Its edges melted back into the rest of the door with finality.

Siobhan stared at the door for a few moments, the muscles in her shoulders and back straining with disbelief, dismay, and frustration. ‘I’m sure I got the password right. Does he know everyone who enters? Are people scheduled to come at very specific times, and I’m off? Or… What was it that Tanya slid underneath her hood? What if it was a signal of some sort? A…mask?’

She turned to find someone walking toward her only a couple meters away and almost jumped in fright.

She managed to avoid such an obvious tell, but her muscles clenched so hard it sent a spike of pain shooting up her back and into her skull.

The other person was hooded like the rest, but held a lantern in their hand that gave off enough light for Siobhan to see the mask beneath.

Siobhan stepped away from the door warily.

The masked person stared at her for a moment.

Siobhan tugged her hood further down and was already spinning away when Liza’s familiar voice said, “Wait.”

Siobhan wasn’t so stupid as to blurt out Liza’s name, but she did stare at her for a moment, mentally resolving the image of the cloaked, masked person in front of her with the sharp-tongued, gold-greedy sorcerer with a hidden core of kindness whose house she’d just come from.

Liza walked to the door, knocked, and when it opened, exchanged a different password phrase with the man on the other side. “I have invited a prospective new member for consideration,” she added.

The man’s eyes looked sideways toward Siobhan, but he nodded. “Wait here.” He closed the slot again.

Liza pulled Siobhan to the side and walked to the edge of the block. She looked around suspiciously and then lowered her mask. “How did you learn about this meeting?”

“I overheard someone talking about it and followed them,” Siobhan said honestly, though leaving out the most critical details.

Liza rolled her eyes with tangible irritation. “Do not mention that to anyone within,” she said quickly.

“I thought this was a meeting for people aligned with the Morrows. I didn’t expect to see you here…” Siobhan stared at the older woman suspiciously. ‘Liza has no allegiance to Oliver. He was clear that her loyalty couldn’t be bought when he first told me about her. But I hadn’t thought she might be working with both sides.’

Liza snorted at her, the sound more angry than derisive. “I will work with whoever I choose, girl, and I will take no censure for it. But I have no particular truck with the Morrows. This is a meeting of thaumaturges that the official, legal factions might not approve of.”

“Oh.”

“My recommendation can get you in the door, but if you want to become a member, you will need to pass the inspection. A prognos examines new members for duplicity, and there’ll be a blood print vow not to reveal the important details of the meeting except to those you invite as prospective new members, and also not to talk about it in general with those you think might be a danger to it. Do not embarrass me. No acting awed, prying too much at the other members, or asking too many questions in general. In fact, if you can manage it, keep your mouth shut entirely.” Liza looked to either side of Siobhan’s face, at the red and black raven feathers growing out from behind her ears and around her temples. “Nice touch.”

Siobhan grazed them with her fingertips self-consciously. “Thank you.”

“I will be expecting a fee for acting as the intermediary here,” Liza added, slipping her mask back on and turning to walk back toward the door.

Siobhan’s eyes narrowed. She thought quickly, then caught up with Liza and said, “I appreciate your help, but it’s little effort on your part. Perhaps a favor, instead of the standard compensation?”

“You may have an interesting title, girl, but I don’t see how anything you can do would be valuable to me.” It was a hint that Liza knew Siobhan was the Raven Queen, but apparently didn’t find that impressive, which made sense seeing as she’d cast magic with Siobhan and knew better than most what she was actually capable of.

“I have a specific favor in mind, actually, and it has little to do with my hair ornaments,” Siobhan replied with a tiny smirk. “Oliver has recently come into some pixie eggs. Fresh.”

Liza’s eyes didn’t widen behind the holes in her mask, but something about her gaze grew more piercing. “Fertilized?” she asked, a little too quickly.

“Unfertilized.” Liza didn’t seem too disappointed, so Siobhan continued. “Two eggs. He’s planning to sell them to someone willing to pay a premium, but I can convince him to offer the chance to make a deal with you, first.”

“You have that kind of influence?”

Siobhan shrugged with careful nonchalance. “It’s just a meeting. If the both of you can’t come to an agreement, that’s not my fault. I think he can do that much for me. I’m the reason he has the eggs in the first place, after all.”

Liza’s head turned toward Siobhan fully at that, but they were back in front of the guarded building, and the door opened slightly behind them, spilling light into the street. They both turned and moved quickly inside, the chance for further conversation gone.

The door guard was standing with two other people, one of them a prognos, as Liza had warned. All three wore masks, though the guard’s covered only the lower half of his face, and of course the mask of the prognos had a single large eye hole in the middle of their forehead.

The prognos’s round eye was rimmed with kohl, and judging by the shape of their body, Siobhan thought her a woman.

The third person was a nondescript man around Siobhan’s height. “Please, come with us,” he said with an understated sweep of his arm. The hallway was narrow, so Siobhan and the man walked in front, with the prognos following behind.

Liza turned the other direction, leaving Siobhan to her fate.

As they walked, Siobhan felt the barest niggle of prying eyes and searching tendrils against her planar divination-diverting ward. Her thoughts turned to the soothing, chill smoothness of the black Conduit against her leg, but she didn’t feed any extra power to the ward. ‘It must be the prognos. It’s subtle enough. Much less than the pressure of getting close to Gera. I wonder if what I feel could simply be this woman’s natural talent for divination? Prognos notice and correlate details in a way entirely beyond most humans, but it doesn’t mean she’s casting a spell. In any case, no need to overreact. The ward can deal with this much all on its own, and I don’t want to be seen as aggressive in the midst of a building full of suspicious, likely powerful thaumaturges. I just hope their questions aren’t too invasive and their oath not too restrictive.’

The man opened a door into a small room, and Siobhan entered ahead of them both at another wave of his hand, her eyes flicking about for danger, taking in every nondescript detail about the room and her escorts’ body language. There was a table in the center, a wooden chest in the corner, and a chalk spell array already drawn on the floor, covering most of the room.

Siobhan was pretty sure it was a ward against lies. Many of the stronger wards against untruth were illegal, because taking away the free will of a human was one of the definitions of blood magic. ‘But that’s not likely to deter these people.’

Her heart was beating too fast, and despite the chill that had seeped into the building, she felt the prickle of sweat on her back. ‘Why do I keep getting myself into situations like this? I must have brain damage. If this goes horribly wrong, will Liza hear me if I scream? Would she help?’

The man motioned for Siobhan to sit at the table, which had a chair on either end, then moved to the chest, where he drew out a couple components and placed them in the spell array on the floor.

The prognos woman sat across from Siobhan while the man began to cast the ward against untruth.

Siobhan felt the strange tension in the air, trying to seep under her skin, into her ears and past her eyes. Into her brain. She shuddered violently.

“It can be unsettling,” the man said quickly. “Just try to relax. It’s easier if you don’t try to fight it, and it’ll be over after a few questions.”

That was not reassuring in the least.

The prognos pulled out two pouches. She poured a Circle of pale, dull sand onto the table with one hand, skillfully adding a few simple glyphs that Siobhan vaguely recognized as directional focusers for spells that acted in some way outside of the bounds of the Circle.

In this case, based on the fact that obviously the woman was about to do a divination, it was focusing a direction for the suffused input of all the little details of sound, air pressure, and light that would be the clues it used to make deductions. Non-sympathetic divination—divination for extrapolating information based on data input rather than something like dowsing for a sympathetically connected item—was difficult, dangerous, and could give subtly or even blatantly incorrect results.

The woman unlaced the mouth of the second pouch and began to shake it with a certain slow rhythm, staring at Siobhan. Whatever was inside clacked around like dull stones.

Siobhan felt the draw on the magic of the disks in her back increase from a trickle into a growing stream. Together with the discomfort of the ward against untruth, she was profoundly on edge.

Her back had grown sweaty and was prickling, though her fingers were chilled and stiff. She curled them tight around the wooden arms of the chair, then very consciously released them and let her hands rest naturally. She stared back into the single, large eye of the prognos unblinkingly, letting her mind fall into that familiar focused state that prefaced casting magic.

“Try to answer with a simple yes or no. Are you a member of law enforcement, public or private, or employed by any member of law enforcement?” the woman asked.

“No,” Siobhan said.

The woman shook the pouch one last time and then upended it over the middle of the sand Circle on the table. Bones spilled out. The pull on Siobhan’s ward spiked sharply.

The bones could have been chicken leg bones, but they weren’t shaped quite right for that.

‘Finger bones,’ Siobhan realized. ‘Humanoid. Probably human. All a little different, and more than ten of them. These came from multiple people.’ On closer inspection, she saw that runes were carved into every inch of their surfaces.

The woman looked down at them, her eyes flicking over the patterns they’d made. The skin above her eye contracted in what was probably a frown underneath her mask. She looked up to Siobhan, and then quickly back down. “Let’s try that again. Maybe a little more simply this time.”

She gathered up all the bones, put them back in the bag, and began the slow rhythmic shaking again. She stared at Siobhan even more intently this time.

Siobhan stared back, feeling the ward kick in again. She instinctively renewed the supply of blood and as much of her Will as it needed to boost its function. The prying, peeping, invasive sensation made her want to lunge across the table and rake her fingers across that eye. She wouldn’t mind sending a slicing spell or two at the man powering the room-sized ward, either. ‘Reacting like that would be a mistake,’ she warned herself.

This time, the woman asked, “Are you a copper employed by Gilbratha?”

“No,” Siobhan responded again.

The woman threw the bones again.

Siobhan gritted her teeth at the pull on her ward as the bones fell, clattered together, and settled. She thought one of her eyes might have twitched involuntarily.

The woman stared at the bones once more. She looked to the man, then to Siobhan, then back to the bones.

“Something wrong?” he asked, a slight edge to his voice. “Do I need to call Peters?”

The woman shook her head quickly. “No. I’m just…not getting anything. It’s contradictory, or maybe like the bones are answering an entirely different question than the one I thought I asked.” She stared at them a while longer, looked up to Siobhan again, and then quickly gathered up the bones. “Let’s try something else. Something less reliant on interpretation.”

She took out another pouch, this one small, and shook three many-sided dice into one hand. She closed her fist around them and asked, ���Are you a copper?”

“No,” Siobhan said. She was beginning to wonder if maybe she should let the divination attempts through, but the ward worked without her conscious input, and pouring more power into it was instant and instinctive, like the way she might have jerked away from a hot poker before even realizing she was being burned. Even if she wanted to let the divination through, and allowed herself to be bare, seen by the eye and touched in the places that should have been dark and secret, the prognos would have to overpower the ward, still.

The woman blew on the dice, and with an arching twist of her hand, let them tumble onto the table.

She paled.

“What is it?” the man at the corner said, his voice straining with agitation.

The woman swallowed, staring at the dice, all three of which had fallen on the same symbol. “I am prying into secrets beyond my ken. The dice give a warning to look away.”

Siobhan sincerely doubted the woman was correctly interpreting that. It seemed most likely to her that the spell was trying to explain that it had been diverted by her ward, turned away impotently.

“Whether or not she’s a copper is secret knowledge?” the man asked.

Siobhan could see his hand sneaking into his pocket, and feel the wavering of the compulsion against untruth as his focus faltered. “Be careful,” she snapped, turning to him with a frown.

He drew out a wand, pointing it toward her, and the compulsion wavered even more violently.

“You’re about to lose control of your spell,” Siobhan said slowly and clearly. “Either focus, or let it drop. I will not be in the range of backlash if something goes wrong due to your gross incompetence.”

The man paled, but his focus on the spell solidified rather than releasing the magic. “What are you doing? Why isn’t the divination working?”

Siobhan turned back to the woman across the table from her, raising her empty hands a little to show that she wasn’t a threat. She couldn’t lie, but that didn’t mean she had to answer his questions exactly as they were asked, either. “It’s not the question that’s the problem. It’s me. I doubt you have access to any type of divination that will work against me. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Won’t work? She’s a prognos,” the man said incredulously, but neither of them responded to him with even a glance.

The woman stared at her, her eyes taking in Siobhan’s dark ones, flicking to the feathers still mostly shadowed by her hood, and then to Siobhan’s raised, empty hands. “Do you…” She swallowed. “Do they call you the Raven Queen, my lady?”

The man sucked in a breath.

‘Why would she come to that conclusion? Has Lynwood or one of his people been spreading tales about what I look like?’ Siobhan stared back for a few seconds too long, and the prognos looked away.

The man half-lowered the battle wand, then raised it again, as if he wasn’t sure where to point it. The ward spell was wavering again.

“They call me that,” Siobhan admitted. She turned to look at the man. “Please don’t be alarmed. I mean you no harm. That won’t stop me if you attack first, though.”

The prognos turned back to meet Siobhan’s gaze. She swallowed. “Put the wand down, Gerry,” she said, her voice hard. “I apologize,” she said to Siobhan. “We did not know.”

‘My reputation must really be getting out of hand if this is how they react.’ Siobhan realized only then that she’d stood at some point and was looming over the woman. She sat down again slowly. “I did not tell you,” she said, trying to sound agreeable. “So there is no way you could have known. Now, we are at an impasse. I cannot pass your test if you cannot ask these questions, and yet, time is passing and I would like to join the meeting before it ends.” It was true. ‘Who knows what Tanya is doing or talking about with everyone else while I’m stuck here?’

“I—” The woman’s voice broke, and she swallowed hard. “I ask only for your promise of truthfulness, Queen of Ravens. That will be more than enough proof for us.”

“You have it,” Siobhan said after a moment of thought. ‘It’s not a lie, because I do plan to be truthful as long as they don’t ask anything too prying, and I can’t be sure yet that they will.’

To her surprise, at a sharp look from the prognos, the man released the spell to stop her from lying.

‘Are you serious right now?’ Siobhan thought incredulously. ‘They’re just going to take my word for it? Maybe they’re worried that the ward will insult me once I’ve already given my word. If so, my reputation is far more honorable than I am.’

“Do you hold any animosity toward this group or its members?”

Siobhan gave her a small, ironic smile. “Not toward the group. I have somewhat…undecided affiliations toward the individual members. But I have no plans to cause trouble that would spill over to affect the whole.”

“Has one of us offended you?” the woman asked, her voice a half-whisper.

“One of you has caused me some trouble, but also saved me some trouble, and I’m positively disposed toward at least one other member. As I said, I am not here to bring trouble. I’m here for the meeting.”

The woman ran through a series of other, similar questions, and Siobhan answered vaguely but truthfully.

Less than two minutes later, the interview was finished, they’d given her a nondescript mask to conceal her identity, and the man was motioning for her to precede him back down the hallway toward the main meeting room.

Siobhan stopped in the doorway of the interview room. “I hope this doesn’t need to be said aloud, but I will do so anyway. I expect that neither of you will reveal my identity to anyone else. That includes gossip about my appearance or abilities, or even that I was here tonight. I value my privacy just as much as anyone else wearing a mask here.”

They both agreed readily, assuring her they wouldn’t leak any information about her.

‘Hopefully they keep their word. I don’t want Tanya getting spooked because the Raven Queen goes to her secret meetings. By all the greater hells, what a mess.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Sorry I missed last week's chapter. I got covid and was out of commission. I'm find and slowly recovering now, just tired.

In other news, we're almost to the next Patreon goal, which includes a bonus omake short story in addition to the extra chapters. I've got some ideas, and patrons will be voting to choose the winner, but if you have anything you'd particularly like to see added to the poll, feel free to mention it in the comments.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-67-secret-thaumaturge-meeting/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 67 - Secret Thaumaturge Meeting

Siobhan

Month 12, Day 26, Saturday 7:55 p.m.

As she walked down the hall with the man, Siobhan reached up to adjust her new, nondescript mask. “So how do these meetings work? Give me an overview of the relevant information.”

He cleared his throat nervously. “Identities are private, obviously. Though some do more to protect theirs than others, we don’t allow unmasking or the use of any moniker besides a codename, which you can choose to provide to the other members or not. There is an arbiter who helps to control the flow of the meeting. He’s the one you’ll see sitting at the big table. We offer item appraisal, for a fee, and all exchanges of both material goods and information must be completed here. We mediate most exchanges to ensure that members will not be cheated, stolen from, or attacked within these walls. There is…a small premium on all exchanges.” He looked to Siobhan as if worried that she would object to this.

‘And that appraisal fee and “small premium” is what makes it worth it for them to set this up in the first place.’ She didn’t respond aloud.

They both stopped walking as the hallway opened up onto a large room filled with a semicircle of chairs arranged in a vaguely horseshoe-shaped arc. The open end was filled by the arbiter her escort had mentioned, sitting behind a large table.

“Umm, the first part of the meeting is for those who have something to sell,” her escort continued in a low voice. “After that, we open the floor to requests. Then there’s the opportunity for open exchange of information. That’s the end of the official meeting, and any parties who have a transaction to complete will stay afterward to do so under our surveillance. We send out members at staggered times, in different directions. And, umm, I’m sure you won’t have a problem with being followed, but generally we expect all members to take a different route to the meeting place every time.”

His voice had been low, but a few of the members had noticed the two of them, and their turned heads were drawing more attention. There were a few dozen people.

‘How many unlicensed thaumaturges are there in Gilbratha? Could that have anything to do with the high incidence of Aberrants, or are Aberrants inevitable when you have a high percentage of thaumaturges in the population? Of course, some of these people could very well have licenses, or have gone to the University for a term or two to learn the basics.’ In many ways, it seemed foolish for the University and Crowns to make it so hard for people to learn magic the official way. Their exclusivity could be creating rogue elements. Kicking early-term students out for underperformance was the same. It was counterproductive, and maybe even dangerous.

If someone like Oliver was in charge, he would take all prospective students who proved themselves worthy, and for those who couldn’t afford it, there would be loans that kept them in debt for a good portion of the remainder of their lives or working in jobs he needed, ensuring the return on his investment into their education. People who flunked out despite access to loans would be put into jobs that suited their limited abilities, keeping them useful and integrated into the system, too.

‘Do the coppers know about organizations like this? They must.’ It wouldn’t surprise Siobhan if someone in a position of power was benefiting from allowing it, either directly, through secretly running the whole thing, or indirectly from getting bribed to ignore it.

Siobhan drew her cloak down farther over her masked face. She walked toward the group with no further hesitation and took an empty seat at the end farthest from the arbiter.

People turned to look as she passed by and sat down. The meeting had already started. She was late.

Siobhan took in details of the members sitting around the circle, in return. There were a handful of other people standing at the corners of the room, a couple sides of which had a row of doors leading toward small adjoining rooms. ‘Guards, probably both to protect the members and protect against them. And I’d bet those small rooms are to handle the exchanges in a slightly more private way after the meeting is over.’

Liza was there, and Siobhan recognized her mostly from the fact that she was the only one other than the arbiter seated at an individual table. It was the unfolding cube artifact that Liza had termed a “portable office.” The woman was slouched nonchalantly on her chair, giving off a sense of irritated superiority even with her features covered.

Some of the other members were obviously non-human, and for the more distinctive of them, the masks they wore might not have actually done much to protect their identities.

Siobhan found Tanya easily enough.

Tanya didn’t do anything particular to give herself away, but Siobhan was intimately familiar with the other girl’s boots, having sliced one open to put the tracker in the heel. ‘Shoes are one of those things people don’t think about disguising. Lucky I don’t have that problem, because Sebastien’s shoes are too big for Siobhan, so I was forced to use a different pair for each identity.’

The man who’d helped interview her hurried over and whispered something into the arbiter’s ear, who then said, “A new member. Welcome. Let us continue, then.”

One of the members had been in the middle of his offering, and leaned forward immediately. “This design can keep minor and common spirits confined. It will resist attempts at dissipation, and my experiments showed that only the weakest spirits were able to escape in that manner. It’s particularly useful against spirits with more ordered natures, but none of the four wild spirits I tested escaped, despite one being particularly clever.”

“How much?” someone else asked.

“Forty-five gold,” the man responded, an obvious smile in his voice, “Or of two hundred grams of shade dust.”

“How about fifty grams of shade dust and a natural adder stone?” A third person said.

The first questioner slumped back in discontent, but seemed uninterested in trying to beat that offer.

The seller looked around to see if anyone else was going to speak up, but seemed more than pleased when he said, “Deal.”

The arbiter nodded and said, with a tone of boredom, “Noted.”

The next member presented various rarer components that Siobhan probably wouldn’t have been able to buy in the market. They had restricted components that the Crowns allowed, but tracked from seller to buyer, entirely illegal components, and components that were simply rare and valuable. Human fingernails, overgrown to the point of curling. Various parts of a mermaid, which included the human-mimicking tentacles and organs from the main body she doubted the being could have lived without. The fangs of a rare flying snake that lived much closer to the equator.

After that, someone offered to teach how to cast the mind-muddling jinx, which caused the victim trouble reading and comprehending. They suggested this could be used on people signing contracts, receipts, or other binding documents that would benefit from lack of attention. Several people took them up on the offer, despite the requested price of fifty gold.

‘I’ll be careful to take note if I ever have trouble concentrating on something someone wants me to sign,’ Siobhan thought uneasily.

Next was something more innocuous. Lightweight cold box artifacts, meant to preserve food, potions, or ingredients, with a signature, secret upgrade that not only kept them cold, but also suppressed putrefaction and dehydration, like a counterfeit combination of a normal ice box and the evidence boxes the coppers used.

The prognos woman had come into the room and sat against the far wall. The arbiter called her up to appraise the artifact. When she confirmed its quality, a handful of people put in orders for one of their own, including the arbiter himself, on behalf of the organization.

‘This is profitable,’ Siobhan thought. ‘Just the lack of the thirty percent magic tax is a huge draw. It’s the kind of thing the Verdant Stag might want to explore, once they’re big enough to ensure the whole thing wouldn’t trial out of control and blow up in their faces like a poorly controlled fireball spell.’

People continued to offer and bid on things for sale for the next few minutes, but Tanya remained silent. Siobhan worried that whatever the other woman had come here for had already passed while she was stuck in the onboarding interview.

Finally, there was a longer pause than normal, and the arbiter looked around and said, “Are there any more offers?”

People looked around curiously, but no one spoke up, so the arbiter cleared his throat and said, “Then let us move on to the requests.”

Tanya immediately became tense, her foot tapping nervously for a couple seconds before falling still.

This time, people asked for what they needed, whether that be components, magical creations, or information. Someone even requested a bodyguard. They offered a price, and sometimes people who could fulfill the need haggled, or bid against each other. Sometimes no one accepted the request.

Tanya was one of the first to speak up. “I’m offering one hundred gold as well as three green beast cores, with a combined power level of nine million thaums. I’m looking for useful information about the Raven Queen. I can split up the reward between multiple people, if more than one person has relevant knowledge.”

Some of the others looked around, while a couple shifted uncomfortably. It was silent for a moment, then a man said, “If you want concrete information, not just rumors, that’s going to be hard to come by. What little I know, at least, is common knowledge. She stole something from the University, she’s powerful, a free-caster, and practices blood magic. If we get into rumors… she’s a shape changer, and can travel through and command the shadows, which is why they’re having such trouble catching her.”

Siobhan nearly choked on her own saliva. ‘What.’

Someone else said, “I have an investigator-adjutant contact. I can ask them for more information, for the right price. They’re not directly on that case, though, so while I might get more details, they probably won’t have access to any truly classified material.”

Liza said nothing, her bored posture never changing. She didn’t even look toward Siobhan.

Tanya leaned forward. “Does anyone have information about her connection to the Verdant Stag?”

There was silence again, and then someone shrugged. “I heard she might come if you make a pleasing enough offering. Maybe Lord Stag knows what she likes, or has some sort of agreement with her.”

Someone else snorted. “Or maybe the Morrows just pissed her off somehow.”

The man who’d offered the design of a spirit-trapping spell array said, “I could do a summoning ritual to connect the two of you. It would slightly skew both of your fates to make a meeting more likely.”

A woman shook her head quickly. “I warn against that. Very iffy results. Even if that kind of compulsion would work on her, what kind of meeting? I certainly wouldn’t want to run into the Raven Queen in a dark alley.”

A man with horns curling out from under his mask said, “I agree. I have access to someone with relevant information about how to set up a meeting with her. Lord Lynwood did it. You’ll need to prepare an offering for her in addition to my payment, though. I can give you an answer at our next meeting.”

Siobhan resolved to ask Lynwood and his people not to go around spreading rumors about her.

Tanya hesitated, but steeled herself and nodded to the horned man. “Okay. I’ll pay seventy gold and two beast cores to anyone who can confirm a meeting with her, along with details about this offering she requires.”

“She’ll choose the time and place of the meeting,” the man said. “Is that okay?”

Tanya seemed supremely uncomfortable, but she again nodded.

The meeting moved on, and someone else asked for a recipe for a strong dissolving tincture. They offered either twenty gold in payment, or the exchange of a recipe for an all-purpose antidote, or a potion of night vision.

‘A dissolving tincture? I have access to a recipe for a strong acid,’ Siobhan realized. ‘I could probably make money offering access to knowledge from the University library.’ She didn’t immediately jump to say she could fulfill the man’s request, though. ‘I have no idea who these people are. Someone might recognize the type of information I could sell and make connections. I need to wait until I have a better idea of what I’ve gotten into. As of right now, I still haven’t done anything illegal. Technically.’

Those thoughts almost made her hesitate to speak her own request, but she pushed through. “I am looking for sempervivum apricus and mandrake root. Both still living.”

A chubby man immediately raised his hand. “I have both. I’ll sell them to you for forty-five gold, or an appropriate item in trade.”

Some quick mental math told her that his prices were actually slightly higher than the component shop that had turned her away, if she took off the thirty percent tax the Crowns placed on all magical sales. “Do you have any need for regeneration potions?” she asked.

“Not healing?” he asked, hesitating. “Well, I suppose. I’ll want them appraised, of course, but if they serve I’ll take six in exchange for the plants.”

“Agreed,” she said, smiling underneath her nondescript mask. Each potion took slightly over three gold to make, and she could make two in a couple hours. She’d just saved herself twenty-six gold in exchange for a weekend of work.

As for her seller, a licensed shop would have sold each potion for about twenty gold. Even the Verdant Stag was going to sell them for over seven gold. So unless he had an alchemist that was willing to sell to him at sub-market prices, he’d just agreed to a deal that left him anywhere from breaking even to making an extra seventy-five gold.

At the end of the meeting, the arbiter said, “We are also willing to purchase certain items. For the time being we are interested in communication or protective artifacts, elemental components, and celerium.”

A few people offered to sell things to the arbiter, and when their haggling was done, the man said, sounding as if he was lazily reciting a memorized spiel, ‘This may be a reminder for our old members, but be sure to watch for the signs about our next meeting. You can find the locations on the list pinned to the wall, there.” He pointed to a piece of paper. “Memorize it, as well as the translations of meaning. This meeting is adjourned. Those who wish may exchange information freely amongst yourselves. If you have agreed to an exchange, please wait for one of us to mediate it.”

‘If people selling or buying information have an arbitrated trade, that means the meeting organizers get all that knowledge for free. Of course, people might decide not to allow the mediator, but without them they have no insurance that the information given is worth what was promised. This makes this whole arrangement doubly profitable for the people behind it.’

Keeping a surreptitious eye on Tanya and an ear open for any interesting conversations, Siobhan moved to the wall to read the paper pinned there. Apparently, the meeting’s organizers paid various households and shops to put sympathetically-linked origami decorations in their windows. The organizers would change details of the decorations remotely, and all the members needed to do was pass by one to see when the next meeting was, or get a warning that it had been cancelled and to be wary.

The meeting organizers sent Siobhan and Tanya out at different times, in different directions, but it wasn’t hard for Siobhan to find Tanya again.

She followed her from a distance, all the way back to the University. She watched the other girl walk into the dorms, and after waiting a few minutes while holding the compass spell, Tanya hadn’t moved from her room.

Siobhan was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to find a dark alley somewhere, change back into Sebastien, and flop into her own bed. Instead, she turned back around and walked briskly back into the city. ‘I can’t get sloppy.’

She changed back into Sebastien at the Silk Door, then walked to Oliver’s house. Despite her warm clothes, her fingers and feet were frozen through by the time she arrived. The servant who opened the door was surprised to see her back, but waved her up to Oliver’s study.

Oliver, too, was surprised to see her, but waved her in, motioning for her to stand, shivering, in front of the fire while he stoked it higher. He ordered coffee from the servants.

When it arrived, Sebastien cast a bit of perfunctory wakefulness intent into it. She offered to do the same for him, but he shook his head, already sipping the dark liquid. “There’s no need,” he said. “Now tell me what happened. Did Liza help you?”

“She did. Just not in the way I was expecting. I followed Tanya Canelo, the girl who blew up Eagle Tower to keep me from being caught, to a secret meeting of thaumaturges. I’m now their newest member.”

He sipped his coffee, not seeming particularly shocked. “That is momentous. Tell me more.”

A note from AzaleaEllis

This is the first of 2 bonus chapters we’ll be seeing this week, with thanks to my patrons! I’m also running a poll to pick the topic of a bonus short story over on the Patreon. I need your feedback!

If you are a patron at any level and haven’t voted yet, go check it out: https://www.patreon.com/posts/third-goal-bonus-56276569

Also, I'm still a little fatigued after having covid, but I'm recovering nicely and am making progress with the writing again. Thanks to those of you who sent me well-wishes.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-68-attack-strategy/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 68 - Attack Strategy

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 26, Saturday 11:30 p.m.

Sebastien quickly reported what little they’d found throughout the week and the events of that evening. “I missed Tanya’s meeting with the Morrows. Unless they have some other stealthy way to communicate with her, she must have met with one of them on the way. If you get me a map, I might be able to estimate the path she took based on her angle from my location, but I’m not even sure how long she was gone from the University before Damien warned me. In the worst case, it could have been almost an hour.”

“This is good,” Oliver said, moving to pull a rolled up map from one of his cabinets. “Actually, very good.”

She stared at him.

“Not that you lost track of the girl. I’m talking about the secret meeting. I’ve wanted to get an eye into a place like that since I came to this city. You can vouch for a Verdant Stag member to join!”

She shook her head. “The rules state you have to have been a member for at least six months and have brought a certain amount of value to the group before you can recommend new members.”

He was disappointed, but said, “Well, next time, make note of what people offer and need, and let me know. There might be some good business opportunities for the Verdant Stag. I’ll give you a couple gold for each meeting.”

“Five gold,” she offered immediately.

“Ridiculous. Three gold.”

“For something that could get me caught and sent to jail in my female form? Your false identity papers aren’t enough to keep me safe from that. Four gold. You’ll be saving a lot more than that by avoiding the magic tax, even after the arbitrator’s fees.”

“Fine. Four gold, but only for any meetings which provide valuable supplies or information.”

She glared at him, but conceded.

He laid out the map and turned to her expectantly.

Based on her memories of her own location and Tanya’s changing angle relative to her, Sebastien estimated a large swath of the city that the other girl could have accessed.

“You’ve just pointed out the majority of Morrow territory,” Oliver said. “Not exactly revelatory.”

Sebastien rubbed her tongue against the back of her teeth, holding back her frustration. “I’ll do better next time.”

Oliver hesitated, staring at the map, then said, “There might not be a next time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m planning a joint attack on the Morrows with the Nightmare Pack. We’re going to oust them and take over their territory.”

Sebastien took a sharp breath.

“The student liaison is a good source of information, but any of the leaders of the Morrows should be, too. If I can question them, spying on her outside the University might not be as critical. Once the Morrows are defeated, it’s even possible her whole operation will fall apart.”

“Eliminating the Morrows altogether…” Sebastien let out a single, breathy laugh. “It’s definitely the most direct way to deal with your problems, but I hadn’t thought it was an actual possibility. I’m assuming you’ve got a plan? And enough manpower? Are you just going to be going after the leadership, or the lower-ranking members as well?”

“The Nightmare Pack are dedicating a lot of their resources to this venture, which is how we’re able to do this. Not only manpower and weapons, but their authority and reputation. Without them, even if we did manage to take out the Morrow leadership, it would be difficult to hold their territory against rebellion and other gangs. With the current plan, we’ll be doing joint strikes on several different points of interest at once. Not only will we be neutralizing their leadership, we also plan to take out lieutenants and capture the most critical resource points and trade stations, so that even if someone slips through our grasp and wants to make a counterattack, they won’t have the resources to do so, or the ability to build up any more resources.” He grew more excited as he talked.

He stood and returned to his desk, motioning for her to follow him. “Look,” he said, pushing piles of paper and other clutter to the side to reveal a large map covered in different-colored notations and scribbled comments. “This is going to be the biggest offensive the Morrows have ever dealt with. We’re hitting eleven different major assets at the same time, and six minor ones. I know no plan survives contact with the enemy, so we’ve tried to make the strategy as shatter-proof as possible.”

Even the amount of surveillance work that must have gone into this plan was impressive. “You’re pouring a lot of resources into this,” she said.

“I have to, or they’ll keep bleeding me dry. It’s either expand or die. You know that as well as anyone. I’m putting as much as I can into this, because it has to work.”

“Are you sure you can trust the Nightmare Pack not to turn on you once the Morrows are finished? They’re much bigger than the Stags, aren’t they?”

“Lord Lynwood and I made a vow of nonaggression for the next five years, so I trust them as much as that’s worth, as long as he remains their leader. Beyond that, though, they became especially accommodating after their visit with you. I don’t think they have any intention of suddenly turning on us.”

They cared for the boy Millennium quite a lot, apparently. They might need her help again if the current spell stopped working as he grew older.

“Besides, we’re both getting a good deal out of this,” Oliver added.

She noted small symbols marked in green. “Healing stations?”

“I’d like to minimize the death toll as much as possible. All the attacking teams will be supplied with basic emergency aid supplies, but it won’t be enough. For more serious injuries, the injured can retreat or be brought to one of the healing stations to receive more extensive care. Life is precious. Not just ours, but theirs too.”

She held back a small smile. She might not agree with all of his ideas, but there was something endearing about the kind of person who would think like that. Sebastien tilted her head to the side. “Did I understand that correctly? You want to minimize deaths on the Morrows’ side, too?”

“Their lives are valuable. And I don’t mean just because they’re sentient beings, though there’s that, too. This isn’t an altruistic decision. We’re not going to be able to get every last member of the Morrows, or their families. Leaving them alive, as hostages, both discourages hasty retaliation and long-term revenge. Some of them have to die either way, but some of them can be ransomed back to their families or any other Morrow who escaped our grasp, for exorbitant prices. That will further drain them of resources they might have used against us. Even if they realize this, if any high-ranking member of the Morrows wants to retain their legitimacy, they’ll have no choice but to ransom their men for honor’s sake, even if it hurts them financially.”

Sebastien frowned, thinking this idea over. “Like taking knights and lords as prisoners of war. They’re worth more alive than dead. But what if they don’t get ransomed? Trying to keep all of them secure and healthy would be a further drain on your resources, and with the new territory you’re going to be stretched pretty thin. What do you do with someone who has no one to ransom him?”

The edges of Oliver’s mouth turned down grimly. “The Morrows are well-known for their disregard of the citizens within their territory. They act like lords above the law. And that territory will be my territory. Their people my people. And I’ve made a name for myself of being fair and just. I do not allow heinous crimes within my territory. There will be some ransoms, but also trials and executions to help legitimize Verdant Stag rule. If any are innocent, or mostly so, perhaps they’ll be offered a job in exchange for their freedom. We’re building the holding cells now. This plan relies on the prisoners not escaping or being broken out by their colleagues. A few more weeks and we’ll be ready to implement the plan. I will use all their lives to the greatest benefit.”

Sebastien didn’t know what to think about that. It made her uncomfortable, but she couldn’t point out any flaws in his logic. Oliver might seem benevolent at times, but he was no fool, and not as soft as he sometimes seemed, either. “The coppers won’t be a problem? You have no authority to hold trial, and an execution is no different than murder.”

He shrugged. “They don’t care so much about murder in the places like this. They happen every day, and unless it becomes egregious, many of the coppers spare only nominal effort to bring the perpetrator’s to justice unless someone important or wealthy is affected. We’ll bribe a few people to look the other way and keep it from being too big a spectacle. We will use both magical and mundane means to ensure we do not execute the innocent, don’t worry.”

That hadn’t been what she was worried about. “You really do want to take over Gilbratha,” she murmured.

He looked up, meeting her eyes unflinchingly. “Of course.”

She looked into the bright fervor in their blue depths, a foreboding of danger shuddering through her.

“It will take some time—years—but I’ve always known the eventual purpose of all this. If we can take Gilbratha, with its people and resources and defenses, we will hold the strongest position in Lenore. From there, with time and care, it is only a matter of time. But first, the fledgling Verdant Stag must overthrow their first real enemy,” he said, turning back to the map.

Sebastien swallowed, her throat dry. People were going to die along the way for Oliver’s ideas. She resolved that she wouldn’t be one of them. “And the Morrows don’t know this is coming? It seems too big an operation to keep secret. If you’re spying on them, they could be spying on you.”

“Oh, they know something’s coming. It’s impossible to keep our preparations entirely unnoticed. But only a few on our side know the details, and we’re going to keep it like that for as long as possible. In addition, we’ll be doing our best to sow panic and confusion amongst the Morrows during the attack. A complete surprise might be impossible, but that doesn’t mean they’ll mount an effective response.”

She nodded slowly, still frowning down at the map. There was at least one healing station within ten minutes of each major target. “If there had been something like this when the Morrows attacked the warehouse, Jameson might still be alive,” she murmured.

Oliver was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Yes. I’m trying to learn my lessons, Siobhan.”

Sebastien turned to look at him. Normally, he was better about using the name of her current body.

He didn’t seem to realize his slip. “We still don’t have enough competent healers to fill all the stations, though. They’ll be a away from the main part of the fighting, and not even the Morrows should have an incentive to attack them, but I’m having trouble getting healers to agree, especially when I can’t tell them the details ahead of time. It’s not just the fighters I’m worried about. We’re in the middle of the city. It’s unlikely all civilians will escape unscathed.”

Sebastien clenched her jaw. She knew the world wasn’t fair, but it grated at her bones when innocents were dragged into danger.

“That’s why I was hoping you would assist at one of the healing stations.”

She jerked her head up to look at him. “I’m not a healer.”

“I know. But you’re familiar with the basic use of alchemy to mitigate injury. I’ve seen you use blood magic to heal someone more than once, and you’re not the type to fall apart at the sight of a little gore. You’ll be placed with an actual healer, not on your own. They can instruct you if there are things you don’t know how to handle, and you can assist them.”

Sebastien’s shoulders and back tightened until she felt little electric tingles of protest running through her spine. She instinctively wanted to deny his request, but she remembered the blood print vow she’d done with Katerin. She couldn’t refuse any favors that acted as repayment of her debt, unless she found them morally reprehensible.

And how could acting as a healer to save not only the Stag members, but civilians and even the enemy, be immoral? “I’ll have time to prepare?” she asked past a tight throat.

“Approximately three weeks,” he said.

‘I can do a lot of brewing in three weeks, and a lot of study on trauma care.’ She rubbed her neck, already anticipating the long hours of fatigue. ‘It feels like I’m always stretched thin, like a hamster in a wheel that never gets anywhere.’ She raised her head, her eyes narrowing as she reeled in a sudden idea. “Rather than in gold toward my debt, can I be paid for my help with a stake in one of the businesses the Verdant Stag’s control? Say…three percent of the ongoing net profits from the alchemy shop?”

Oliver’s eyebrows rose, and then he laughed. “You are a clever one. But I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “You have to pay off your debt first before you can negotiate things like that. You’ll be paid the same rate as any other healer’s assistant at Apprentice level on this mission. Forty gold. A month’s pay for a single night of heavy work.”

She couldn’t deny that was fair. The amount he’d given her last time was to partially make up for everything that had gone wrong after he called her out of bed to help in the middle of the night. “I agree. But of course, any brewing I do between now and then will be paid separately.”

They worked out a code for extreme emergencies, with the linked bracelets they both wore on their forearms, hidden under their clothes. If necessary, she would break one of the bracelets, and Oliver would use one of the other bracelets as a divination target.

Because of the way the divination-diverting ward worked, she would have to place the target bracelet somewhere away from her body, and if she was forced to move, it would be no use. But if that happened, she had multiple bracelets, and could leave a trail of metaphorical bread crumbs.

Oliver paid for her carriage back to the University, and it was a nice one that even had a shielded brazier of coals within to keep the riders warm.

The dorms were dark and mostly silent. It was well past curfew, but Damien was still awake, sitting up on his bed and waiting for her to pass by. He hopped up as soon as he saw her and motioned for her to follow him from the room.

With a sigh, she trudged after him into the bathrooms, where he checked every stall before turning around to say, “I don’t know how she slipped away. We looked for her as soon as we realized, and I broke the bracelet as soon as I knew we weren’t going to find her immediately.”

Sebastien nodded tiredly. “You did fine. She’s slippery, but I found her.”

“What happened? She’s been back for a couple hours already. Was she meeting with whoever Professor Munchworth was talking about? What were you doing?”

Sebastien considered lying to him, or simply telling him he didn’t have the right to know before he’d proved himself, but the effort seemed exhausting. But telling the truth seemed even more impossible. “She met with someone. I’m not sure who. I couldn’t see their face. She traded some of the gold for beast cores. If she did anything else, it was before I caught up to her.”

“Beast cores? Why would she want those?”

Sebastien shrugged. “To trade or to use. You can make guesses as easily as I could.”

Damien had more questions, but she brushed them off. “I don’t know, Damien, and even if I did, that doesn’t mean I would tell you. You’ve got a long way to go before your curiosity entitles you to information.” She added silently, ‘And if I have my way, it never will.’

She slept well, for once, and in the morning went to the library, trailing behind Tanya and Newton.

Tanya headed up the stairs for the second floor, but Sebastien called Newton’s name as the young man moved to follow her.

Newton walked with her a few meters away and lowered his voice. “Is everything okay? Is this about me losing track of T—”

She shook her head, cutting him off. “It’s fine. This isn’t about her. I was wondering if I could ask you a favor.”

Newton nodded, raising his eyebrows as he waited for her to continue.

“I need the recipe for Humphries’ adapting solution. But it’s on the second floor. I was wondering if you could bring me this book so I could copy it?” she asked, handing him a slip with the potion reference’s location.

“Umm, sure, I can do that. Why do you need it, if I can ask?”

She’d already thought what to say, if he asked her that. “I met a young girl who’s mother is an Apprentice under a sorcerer. The girl has a blood disorder that requires constant visits to the healer, and…well, her mother is struggling to pay for treatment. I heard her pleading with the healer while the girl waited outside.”

“Oh,” Newton murmured.

Sebastien nodded. “This won’t fix the problem, but it’s a lot cheaper than healing spells, and her mother should be strong enough to brew it. Maybe it’ll help them get back on their feet.”

Newton’s grip on the piece of paper tightened, and he hurried off to the second floor with a sharp nod.

When he returned, Sebastien copied the information on the potion onto a couple loose sheets of paper. The potion was difficult, and power-intensive, and some of the components were relatively expensive, but she could brew it, in very small batches. Flipping a few pages found the modified piercing spell that would let someone funnel the solution directly into a patient’s veins, overcoming the natural defensive barrier of their skin.

‘That would work for blood transfusions, too.’ It was just another example of how the delineations between acceptable and unacceptable magic were so arbitrary.

“Thank you,” she said, handing the book back to Newton.

“No need for thanks. I wish there were more people like you out there,” he said with a soft, knowing smile.

She shuffled awkwardly. “Err, how’s your father?”

“His lungs rattle with every breath,” Newton said, his smile turning strained. “But we found a healer who’s willing to take payments, and there are a couple people who might be willing to lend us some gold.”

Sebastien wondered if this healer and lender were both from the Verdant Stag, but couldn’t just ask. “Let me know if I can help,” she said. “I know a couple people with enough coin that they probably wouldn’t mind lending some to you.”

“Thank you, Sebastien, but really, you’ve already done more than enough to help me.”

She shook her head. “Not really. I’ve pointed some opportunity your way, and that’s it. You’re the one who’s helping yourself.”

He rolled his eyes at her, but his smile had lost its strain as he left back to the second floor to keep a subtle watch over Tanya.

Sebastien folded up the recipe for Humphries’ adapting solution and put it in her pocket. She held her fingers over the pocket, imagining she could feel warmth through the fabric. ‘I won’t let anyone else die the same way as Jameson, at the least.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

This is the second of two bonus chapters this week! The regularly scheduled chapter will be posted on Thursday.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-69-drills/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 69 - Drills

Sebastien

Month 12, Day 31, Thursday 2:30 p.m.

Over the next few days, no one reached out to Oliver or any of his people to request a meeting with the Raven Queen. Sebastien found this puzzling, but since she was unsure about what to do if they did request one, she was fine with postponing the problem as long as possible.

If she met with Tanya as the Raven Queen, they’d have to set a system in place to make sure they avoided any traps by the University faction behind Tanya. It was dangerous, much more so than meeting with Lynwood had been. However, she might be able to get information from Tanya in return, maybe even figure out what was going on behind the scenes with the University, the Crowns, and the ancient book.

Oliver might even have some other way to use the meeting to gain an upper hand against his enemies, like using Tanya to feed the Morrows false information.

Still, the danger, the uncertainty, left Sebastien’s muscles tightening enough that she had to use Newton’s esoteric humming spell to forcefully calm herself several times.

On the bright side, her gold problem was slightly alleviated, taking a portion of that pressure off her shoulders. Oliver had indeed sold the pixie eggs to Liza, and after appraising the star sapphire, Siobhan was owed a little over ninety gold. She took eighteen to pay for the ingredients for the regeneration potions she was soon to owe the man from the secret meeting, and let the rest of it go toward paying off some of the interest she owed the Verdant Stag.

After that, she had paid off all the interest accrued up to that point, and managed to shave down the principal to, oh, only about nine hundred fifty gold!

She wanted to pull her hair out. ‘Fifty percent interest is a nightmare. At least it isn’t compounding. Yet.’ If she couldn’t pay the balance off within a year, whatever interest she owed would be added to the principal balance, and she’d start paying fifty percent interest on that, too. It was kind of ironic that the Verdant Stag did a lot to help people, like selling life-saving potions well below the market value, and yet practiced lending with terms so predatory most people would owe them for life. ‘I wonder how much of Oliver’s seeming philanthropy is actually a cloak for his desire for power?’

She, Damien, and Newton continued to keep watch over Tanya, but other than a couple paper bird messages that they had no way to intercept, she did nothing suspicious. Perhaps Tanya was waiting, too.

Sebastien spent her free time studying emergency triage—the best way to keep people with traumatic wounds alive a little longer so someone with actual skill could save them—and still managed to slip in some time reading about the purpose of sleep.

On Thursday, in Fekten’s Defensive Magic class, Sebastien was shown once again the distance between her and her goals.

As always, they started out the class with a workout, while Fekten lectured in a voice that had no trouble traveling clearly to all the students, despite how many of them there were, the wide area they took up, and the grunts and heavy breathing that accompanied their labour.

“The biggest problem using magic in a dangerous situation is the difficulty of casting while moving. There are ways to get past this. Artifacts and battle alchemy, tomes full of spell pages, or even the wrought-metal, portable Circles the army provides. Each have their downsides, but these downsides are never more apparent than when attempting to <em>shield,” Fekten yelled.

He walked among them, occasionally stopping to goad someone into more effort, or to do the exercises right along side them, only better, while never stopping his monologue. “A shield must be large enough to cover the body, and most are power-intensive. Except those cast by complex artifacts, most shields will require a large Circle drawn on the ground around the caster and whatever they are trying to protect. This goes against everything I have taught you about how to survive in a dangerous situation! What are the rules of survival?”

Without a pause, the students screamed back in the middle of whatever exercise they were doing, “To stay alive, use stealth to escape! Hide under stationary cover only when you cannot run! Dodge only when you cannot hide! Shield in place only when you cannot dodge!”

Sebastien’s voice was weak past her panting, as she completed the torturous workout move that Fekten had introduced as “burpees,” which required her to do a pushup, then immediately jump up and reached for the sky, only to fall back down into another pushup in an endless loop of pain. Still, she repeated the words with as much force as she could. They were Fekten’s mantra, and he added more to them every couple weeks. If Fekten suspected that one of the student’s hadn’t been listening, or wasn’t filled with enthusiasm, he assigned additional exercise to the entire group.

She assumed Fekten would begin to teach them something about fighting back when he thought them competent enough to live through such an attempt. ‘Which means it might be years,’ she thought with a mental whimper.

Satisfied, Fekten nodded and continued. “I have seen dozens of stupid thaumaturges die inside their shield Circle! No shield protects against everything. Even if you manage to stand against one enemy’s attacks, are you more powerful than two, or ten, working together? Can you shield off their fireball spell at the same time you block the rock they’ve thrown at you just behind it? Can you block a broadsword swung with enough force to split you in two at the waist, or an explosive potion launched from a hundred meters away? Half of you can’t even cast a shield!”

He breathed hard for a moment, from passion rather than exhaustion, stopping beside Sebastien’s group to do burpees with them. He did the pushups with only one arm, and on the jump rose at least a foot higher than all of them.

He returned to the speech, his yell barely hitching. “The correct way to keep your heads attached to your bodies is to avoid the conflict. Leave it to someone who’s actually competent! And how do you escape without the ability to cast magic, when you don’t have an artifact or tome carried around with you? How do you survive when you run out of components, out of energy, out of Will? By being stealthier! By being faster! By being stronger! If they can’t catch you, they can’t kill you!”

He tossed himself into the air one last time, signaled a station change, which let each group of students moved on to a new exercise, and kept lecturing.

Sebastien’s class had Defensive Magic after lunch. She’d never thought herself to have a weak stomach, but she’d soon learned to eat lunch as early as possible on Tuesdays and Thursdays if she wanted to avoid feeling her food try to come back up while she tossed her body around. Her group was on the jump-rope station next. She’d always thought the game childish.

Now, as she threw herself into the complex footwork and rabbit-quick hops that Fekten was trying to drill into them, she knew that jump-rope had probably been introduced to children by some sadistic devil chuckling to itself at their naivety and eventual, inevitable, horrible disillusionment.

“But, you say, ‘What do I do when I failed to run away, I failed to hide, and I’ve no chance of shielding?’ Dodge! Sound off, three times!”

The students repeated the mantra pitifully, out of breath and out of sync with each other.

Fekten shook his head sadly, but called a halt to the conditioning part of the class without assigning punishment exercises. He had them clean up the equipment, then move from the open white flats to the building with the simulation room.

Inside, humanoid mannequins with “battle” wands were arrayed in several circular groups, facing inward.

Fekten led the students in a quick review of the basic footwork he’d been teaching them, then chose a handful of students to face off against the mannequins.

Rhett Moncrieffe, Damien’s Crown Family friend, was in the first group and performed stunningly. As the mannequins surrounding him shot colored balls of light that would burst open and dye whatever they hit in bright colors, Moncrieffe spun and twisted and dodged.

The mannequins shot faster as time passed, their rhythm more unpredictable.

Moncrieffe kept going beyond the point that seemed possible, until Sebastien had to wonder how he was even perceiving all the spells coming his way.

Finally, he was hit in the back of his hip by one bright blue shot, while avoiding three other simultaneous shots by the other mannequins. He fell to the ground, winded, and the students watching and idly practicing their own footwork in anticipation let out a cheer.

Apparently, Moncrieffe was the star of the first-term dueling team, and had been training for this since he was three. He was expected to win trophies, and already had a gathering fanbase among the other students.

Damien sidled over to Sebastien. “Do you want to bet on how long you can last?”

Sebastien shot him a dirty look, not even bothering to respond. Damien had made no secret that he found it hilarious the first time she fell on her face during dodging drills. He seemed to take particular pleasure in crowing about the few things she was bad at.

Fekten handed out contribution points based on their rankings in these practical exercises. Moncrieffe had earned dozens already that term, Damien had earned over twenty, and Sebastien was approaching one whole point, from all the small fractions of points she’d gathered.

As Fekten pointed at her for the next round, Damien slapped her shoulder and yelled. “Go! Double-S! Slither like a snake!”

Some of the surrounding students laughed and repeated this mocking cheer.

Sebastien scowled as she took her place in the center of a ring of mannequins. ‘I’m not even that bad,’ she grumbled mentally. ‘Barely in the bottom half of the class.’ Under Fekten’s torture, she was strong enough and fast enough to throw herself around before the blasts of light could reach her.

But she was just bad at dodging, especially while trying to remember to use the footwork Fekten was teaching them. Her mind moved quickly, and she could react quickly, if not as instantly as Rhett, but it was all conscious calculation. She had to think about every move her body made, and she couldn’t even get into a rhythm of movement like she could for something like jumprope. It was never instinctive, and as the attacks became quicker and required her to move in more complex ways, she couldn’t keep up the mental calculations with enough time left to send instructions to her body.

Sebastien started out perfectly, but began to show the signs of strain after only a couple minutes. Her movements grew jerky, clumsy, and a little too forceful as she scrambled to keep up. She threw herself to the ground to avoid three shots that would otherwise have hit her in the legs, chest, and head, and then rolled quickly to the side as she saw a mannequin lower its arm to shoot her on the ground.

She tossed herself upright, the movement weaker after all the burpees than she would have liked, then had to backpedal to avoid a shot that almost brushed her nose. She retreated right into another two shots, one in the kidney, one in the back of the head.

She tried not to slump too obviously with defeat. The attacks were mostly light and a sprinkle of dye, with barely enough force to injure. Still, Fekten was quick to point at her. “Siverling! You just got your brains splashed over the ground, and if that did not kill you, the mutilated kidney would have you bleeding out in under two minutes. Out.”

She turned to rejoin the group of waiting students, but Fekten waved her over.

“You think too much,” he said, his voice still loud but not a projected yell meant for the entire room. “You need to learn to act on instinct. Practice until the movements are engraved into your body, so that you no longer need to think to respond, only do what you have done thousands of times before. You might never be great, but you could be passable, at least.”

Sebastien said, “Yes, Fekten,” as the man had told them all to address him, but didn’t feel particularly optimistic as she rejoined the group, where Damien was still trying to stifle his laughter. ‘When will I ever have time to practice all this thousands of times?’

It wasn’t that she scorned the man’s advice. She’d already tried practicing on her own, tuning the mannequins to an easier setting so she could have more time before getting overwhelmed. That was how she’d gotten to her current level of mediocrity. And she had gotten better, but not because her muscles somehow retained the memory of what to do. No, she had simply begun to memorize the best movement to make to avoid more complex attacks, and could immediately implement it rather than have to calculate it first.

Trying to do that until she reached even Damien’s level would have cost her almost as much practice every week as Professor Lacer’s class did. And if she was going to choose a class to struggle in, it definitely wasn’t going to be Practical Casting.

‘There’s another option to solve the dilemma between escaping and casting. Just become a free-caster. I’m sure Professor Lacer could shield while running away. If he ever needed to run away.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

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Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-70-old-wives-tales/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 70 - Old Wives' Tales

Siobhan

Month 1, Day 7, Thursday 6:30 p.m.

As was the nature of time, it passed—all the way into the new year. Sebastien had to cast a deafening hex on herself to get to sleep on New Year’s Eve, setting up a string ward across the doorway to her cubicle so she could feel secure going to sleep in a room full of other people, many of whom were somehow intoxicated. ‘I hate wealthy, well-educated young adults,’ she lamented, pulling her blankets over head. ‘I wish I were as frightening as Professor Lacer. He could just open the door and look around for three seconds, and I would be guaranteed peace for the rest of the night.’

She confirmed that there would be no secret meeting that weekend, then spent most of it at Oliver’s house, doing alchemy to prepare for the attack on the Morrows. Her Will had grown enough that she was able to prepare a few more doses of the less intensive items per batch, and accordingly, her payment for a weekend of work increased. She’d made almost twenty gold in only two days of work.

To be fair, it was exhausting work, and it pushed her to her limits by the end of the day, but it meant that she could make more in a week than the interest on her debt.

Early the next week, the secret organization’s paper ornaments placed in windows throughout the city changed, indicating there would be another meeting that Thursday.

Oliver gave Sebastien a pouch of gold and a list of things he wanted her to see if she could buy.

She left first, changing her appearance at the Silk Door and then returning to the base of the white cliffs to wait for Tanya to leave the University.

She had instructed Damien to stay behind when Tanya left that evening, and was relieved to see that he followed her instructions without grumbling.

Siobhan was Tanya’s only tail, as far as she could tell.

She followed the other woman from a distance, but Tanya didn’t stop to talk to anyone or enter any buildings. After Tanya had arrived at the secret meeting spot, Siobhan waited a few minutes before entering herself.

She wore her own mask this time, not trusting the one the organizers had provided. If it were her, she would have secretly cast tracking spells on all of them to give herself the upper hand over the members. Knowledge was power, after all.

Among this group of masked, dangerous thaumaturges, she was nervous, still feeling awkward and on edge, but she tried to keep that from her body language. ‘They don’t know who I am or what I’m here for. No one here has any reason to wish me ill. Tanya is completely oblivious.’ She kept imagining she felt the eyes of the meeting facilitators on her, though they weren’t staring whenever she turned to look, and she was sure there were more guards in the room than there had been the last time.

During the first part of the meeting, where people made offers of what they had to sell or trade, the chubby man she vaguely recognized from the last meeting raised his hand and said, “I brought the sempervivum apricot and mandrake for the person who wanted them last time.”

Siobhan nodded. “I have the regeneration potions.”

The arbiter made a note on the paper before him. “We will handle the appraisal and exchange after the meeting.”

Siobhan paid close attention to what people offered, and managed to buy a few of the things on Oliver’s list. Liquid stone potions, for fortifications and stabilizing people with broken bones. A batch of philtres that when breathed in, created a sealed bubble inside a punctured lung, keeping someone from drowning in their own blood. A couple minor healing potions, which could be used when something like her regeneration potion wasn’t enough. An artifact that stored large masses of water inside a folded space and then released it again in a powerful spray. It did not contain any weight-affecting spells, so would be almost impossible to carry when fully loaded with liquid, but with the help of a couple horses, it could be used to put out fires, or even to attack crowds. Additionally, with the right kind of damage to the artifact, it could probably cause a deadly explosion of water.

Tanya sent a few distrustful looks Siobhan’s way, because it was obvious she was gearing up for some sort of altercation, but she didn’t seem to suspect Siobhan of being the Raven Queen.

Tentatively, Siobhan pulled out a pouch from her pocket. She cleared her throat. “I have some celerium for sale. One small conduit, rated at one hundred thaums, for twenty gold. One conduit at two hundred twelve thaums with a spot of contamination, for sixty-two gold. And a shattered conduit that was originally rated at two hundred fifty thaums, for twenty-five gold.” She had calculated the sale price based off the current market price, deducting a little for the absence of magic tax, and a lot due to the shattered nature of the larger conduit. Celerium pieces couldn’t be merged back together, and only the weakest child would be able to channel through the remaining shards. Celerium grew exponentially more expensive with increasing size and clarity, so most of the worth of her old Conduit was gone. Still, celerium was used in a few powerful spells, and was a fantastic material for drawing robust, high-capacity spell arrays, so it could be used for something.

The arbiter looked around to meet the eyes of the prognos woman, who was sitting in the corner.

“I’ll give you seventy-five gold for the two unbroken Conduits, contingent on appraisal,” a woman said.

Siobhan frowned.

The fat man she’d done her other trade with said, “Eighty gold for the whole lot, and I will throw in a pound of etherwood leaves, too. Easy to resell, or smoke yourself if you enjoy them.”

Her stated price would have been one hundred seven gold for everything, but she had acknowledged ahead of time that she would go down to one hundred gold if someone wanted it all. Eighty gold was too little, and the only person she knew who smoked etherwood was Katerin.

“These prices are ridiculous,” a woman muttered sourly. “Wait a few months till the shortage is over and you’ll be able to get that celerium for half the price.”

The fat man hesitated, but said, “My offer stands. I like to build up relationships with useful people.”

“One hundred fifteen gold for all the celerium,” the arbiter said suddenly.

Siobhan straightened, staring at him from behind her mask. Many of the other members were surprised as well. That was more than the combined individual price for all three Conduits.

A few people, including Tanya, looked between the arbiter and Siobhan with suspicion.

She tried not to show her surprise, in case the man changed his mind, and was grateful for the mask that had covered her facial expressions. “Any other offers?” she asked.

No one spoke up.

“Alright. One hundred fifteen gold,” she agreed.

Finally, the offerings portion of the meeting was over, and they moved on to requests.

Tanya spoke up immediately. “Last time, I requested help setting up a meeting with the Raven Queen. Was there any success?”

The man with the horns, who had offered to help her last time, shook his head. “I tried, but my contact refused to help. They were afraid to talk about the Raven Queen at all. Wouldn’t even say her name. Apparently Lord Lynwood is cracking down. I suggest you to go to the Verdant Stag and ask there. The red-haired proprietress has connections to Lord Stag, and he should be able to get you an audience.”

It seemed as if perhaps Lord Lynwood had heeded Siobhan’s relayed request for him to limit the gossip his people were doing about her with a little more vehemence than she’d anticipated.

Tanya scowl was obvious in her voice. “I’m not paying for that kind of ‘help,’” she snapped. “If I wanted to go to the Verdant Stag, I could have done that already.”

The man shrugged.

“This transaction was unsuccessful,” the arbiter said, sounding a little tense, a contrast to his normal tone of boredom. “There will be no retaliation from either party. Please be aware that violence is prohibited. As the request was not met, no payment is due.”

Tanya sighed deeply, adjusting her mask, then said, “The previous offer still stands. Anyone who can give me relevant information about the Raven Queen or set up a meeting between us will be rewarded. Gold. Beast cores. I also have access to various unusual or restricted components, if you have a very specific need. But I’m not interested in trading for anything except the Raven Queen.”

Siobhan again considered setting up the meeting between Tanya and her alternate persona herself, but decided against it. ‘I need to talk to Oliver before I make such a risky move. It might not be worth it.’

One member raised his hand tentatively. “I’ve overheard a couple o’ the coppers talkin’ over drinks at my pub. Might be just as filled with rumors as the rest o’ the stuff on the street, but I’m happy to tell you, and you can judge for yourself.”

Tanya agreed, and the arbiter noted their meeting, sending a very subtle glance Siobhan’s way.

‘Oh. Of course he’s tense. He knows I’m the Raven Queen. The interviewers must have mentioned something. Everybody gossips,’ she though with a sigh. She wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. The people in charge probably wouldn’t want to sell her out to the coppers to get the reward, not with their reputations on the line, and the pseudo-misunderstanding might even have been the reason he offered such a high price for her celerium.

During the general information exchange at the end of the meeting, a woman with an old-sounding voice said, “There are rumblings of blood and violence in Gilbratha’s future. It is like a violin string pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping and slicing through flesh. Take heed. Be wary.”

“That’s pretty obvious to anyone with eyes and ears,” someone else said.

A woman nodded. “I say, stock up on the necessities and a good lock for your door. It’s always best to be prepared.”

“As a reminder, I have single-use stunning artifacts,” someone else interjected opportunistically. “It’s enough to escape in an emergency or incapacitate a burglar who’s broken into your house in the night.”

No one said anything more specific about this upcoming danger. ‘I wonder if it has anything to do with the attack on the Morrows,’ Siobhan thought, but was quickly distracted as one of the organizers waved her and the component-seller over to a side room, where the prognos woman Siobhan recognized from her interview bowed deeply to her.

Tanya was walking to her own secure room with the man who’d overheard gossip about the Raven Queen in a pub, but Siobhan didn’t worry about missing anything, because she couldn’t have listened in without being caught, anyway.

The prognos gave only a perfunctory nod to the chubby man, who looked at Siobhan with more interest after experiencing the disparity in their treatment. Siobhan’s regeneration potions were pronounced acceptable, as were the two plants the man had brought, their pots concealed within a plain wooden box, and they traded.

The man left, and the woman called in the others that Siobhan had traded with on Oliver’s behalf. When it was all finished, and they had gone, she said, “I will take the celerium, if that is acceptable to you.”

“Sure.” Siobhan handed the small pouch over. She felt some regret at parting from her oldest Conduit. Her grandfather had given it to her as a child, and it had been with her until now. Second-hand Conduits sometimes held a weak sympathetic connection to their original owners, from being kept so close and used so intimately. But unlike a piece of her body, the connection would be weak, and fade quickly. Nothing powerful enough to harm her could be cast with it.

The woman exchanged a full purse of gold before even looking into the pouch.

Siobhan was surprised. “Are you not interested in verifying my claims of quality? I could have just handed you a pouch full of pebbles.”

The woman swallowed heavily, her eye having trouble meeting Siobhan’s. “I trust in your honor,” she said weakly.

Siobhan tilted her head to the side. “Really?” That just seemed foolish. She had verified all the other transactions. It was part of her job, whether she trusted the members or not.

The woman’s hands were white-knuckled around the celerium pouch. “If you had given me a pouch of pebbles, would you have submitted to my protest about the matter? If you lied to me, what could I do about it?”

“That is ridiculous,” Siobhan said before she could think better of it.

The woman rocked back on her feet, her knuckles whitening further. “I will appraise them immediately. I apologize, I meant no insult.” She fumbled with the mouth of the pouch.

Siobhan sighed, amazed at how gullible people could be. The woman hadn’t seemed this frightened of her the last time. “Not all rumors about me have any basis in truth,” she said, making her voice as soothing as possible in an attempt to calm the woman. “I am not dishonest, and if somehow I had given you pebbles instead of celerium, I would expect you to complain, and either refuse to pay me, or ask for equivalent recompense. I do not commit random acts of violence. I know you told the arbiter who I am, but I’m not so angry as to retaliate. However, I would appreciate it if you refrained from adding even more nonsense to the rumors.”

It was rather disheartening to feel like an axe murderer threatening a defenseless woman who was trapped in a small room with her. The Raven Queen’s reputation might have some benefits, but it could have downsides, too, if people felt they were trapped or in danger and decided to resort to excessive force to “protect” themselves from her. A cornered rat would bite, and the real Siobhan Naught couldn’t match up to her shadowed reputation.

The woman barely seemed comforted, but she nodded and whispered, “I understand. Thank you.” She gave Siobhan a couple tentative glances then said, “I suppose I am being a little ridiculous?”

It was more of a question than it should have been, but Siobhan nodded. “You are.”

The woman let out a breath, then laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “It is policy to let the arbiter know when one of the members might be particularly dangerous, but I promise I haven’t been gossiping about you. I may have been listening to too many distorted rumors, though.” She hesitated. “Could I ask a question?”

“You may, but I do not promise to answer.” Siobhan’s divination-diverting ward was active at a low level, of course, but she didn’t want to risk trying to lie to a prognos.

“Why can’t I focus on you? I can think about you when you’re not in the room with me, but standing so close to you, I just have the urge to look away or think about something else.”

Siobhan considered that this might be a dangerous question to answer, but decided, ‘The Raven Queen can’t be the only person in the city warded against divination. Hopefully the effect isn’t distinguishably strange enough for it to be something a passing prognos could use to be suspicious of Sebastien Siverling.’

Aloud, she said, “For the same reason you could not divine if my answers were truthful. By your nature you cannot help but see deeper, and I am immune to divination.” That was an exaggeration, but of the kind Siobhan didn’t mind spreading. Maybe if people thought it was impossible, they wouldn’t even try. On a whim, Siobhan decided to push it one step further. “Those who try too hard may find that though they do not see me, I see them.”

“Oh,” the woman said softly.

“Goodnight,” Siobhan said. By the time she left, Tanya had a significant head start, but Siobhan was able to catch up with the other girl and follow her back to the University. Tanya walked hurriedly and turned a few corners rather abruptly, and Siobhan almost lost her a couple times, but thankfully could rely on the compass divination spell to keep from needing to follow suspiciously closely.

She watched Tanya ride up to the University grounds in the clear tubes that wove over the cliffside, then turned back toward the Silk Door. She watched her breath fog up in the cool air under the light of a streetlamp. ‘I made almost one hundred and twenty gold tonight! I wonder what I can sell next time?’ She held back a squeal of excitement.

A note from AzaleaEllis

The Bonus Omake Poll winner: "Thaddeus POV from chapter 'Sirens' Aberrant incident (exploring a low-level Aberrant and the workings of the Red Guard more directly)"

I'll be brainstorming the idea over this next week, and writing it the next. The short story will be available, at least at first exclusive to patrons, by the first or second week of October, depending on how quickly the process goes.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-71-the-penultimate-piece/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 71 - The Penultimate Piece

Sebastien

Month 1, Day 9, Saturday 9:00 a.m.

As Sebastien, she went to Oliver’s house, dropping off the purchased packages for the Verdant Stag in his office. Over a hundred gold went to pay down her debt, though she kept fifteen gold for herself, for miscellaneous expenses. ‘I’m making progress.’

She put her two new potted plants in her room, turning on the light crystal lamp and placed it right beside the sempervivum apricus. They needed a lot of light to survive, and with it being winter this far north, the illumination from the gloomy sky through the window wouldn’t be enough.

On Friday, she decided to go back to Professor Lacer, but the thought of seeing him reminded her of the auxiliary exercises which she had been somewhat slacking off on. During the free period where her second class of the day would have been, she slipped into the classroom which Damien and his little study group used, which was empty. She secretly stole some of Damien’s coffee, then spent the whole period practicing a simple spell that compressed air into a ball. It seemed to augment the rock-creation and disintegration spell that Professor Lacer had introduced in class, but she found the extra control she gained from it was particularly useful for improving the range and size of her fabric-slicing spell, which used an edge of compressed air.

That evening, she took the time to review and clean up the sleep-proxy spell she’d been working on for the last few weeks. It was the most complex spell array for anything she’d ever considered casting, largely because she had tried to make the Word as comprehensive as humanly possible, including the equivalent of pages of detailed instructions in tiny script which spiraled around a long section of the edge.

On Saturday morning, she rolled up the extra-large sheet of paper she’d written the spell array on and put it into her satchel, anxiety turning her stomach sour.

Professor Lacer had told her to bring it to him, when she’d finished improving it. Showing what could easily be construed as evidence of intent to cast blood magic to a professor sounded like an absolutely idiotic idea. But since he already knew she was working on it, hadn’t expelled her, and instead actually helped her with it, it’s not like this second review would place her in any additional danger. From what she’d seen of him so far, it seemed more likely he would expel her for trying to cast it without a final review from an expert than for the spell itself.

His only office hours that didn’t immediately follow one of his teaching periods was early in the morning on Saturday. Sebastien suspected this was meant to deter those without a true reason to see him, since most students would be sleeping in, and those who weren’t might prefer eating breakfast to his oppressive demeanor and scathing tongue.

She knocked on his door.

The door opened seemingly on its own, though he was sitting behind the desk with a mug of steaming black coffee. He motioned her in, closing the door behind her with with a nonchalant wave of his hand, within which he held a small beast core for energy.

Without preamble, she took the rolled-up paper out of her bag and handed it to him.

He took it with a slightly raised eyebrow, and laid it flat across his desk. “This is quick work,” he murmured, his eyes flicking over the spell array as he sipped his coffee.

‘It’s easy to work on it when I can’t sleep,’ she thought.

He waved absently for her to sit down.

About ten silent minutes later, he looked up. “Passable, for a first term student. At least you’ve done your research. It won’t immediately blow up, with the right Will.”

Sebastien let out a soft breath, deflating slightly. She swallowed. “On an unrelated note, I’d like to use one of the school’s Henrik-Thompson artifacts to test my capacity. Would you be willing to facilitate that?”

His eyebrow raised again, and he stared at her for a moment.

She stared back, straight-backed and still.

He stood abruptly, and she almost startled. He rolled up her spell notes and handed them back to her. “Come,” he said, motioning with his wrist. “Do you know how to calculate thaumic requirements?” he asked as they walked.

“I understand the theory. We’ve done a little practice in Burberry’s Intro to Magic and in Natural Science, but the calculations are a little beyond me for this spell.”

“Hmm,” he said inscrutably. He led her down a couple curved hallways to a door near Burberry’s classroom. It was a storage closet. He pulled a Henrik-Thompsons testing artifact off one of the shelves, placing it on the floor in the middle of the room. He looked around and then pulled a small brazier off another shelf, lighting it with a snap of his fingers. “Well, go ahead. I’ll take the measurement reading,” he said.

Her star sapphire Conduit was still tucked uncomfortably inside the lip of of her boot, pressing against her calf, but the one he’d given her was tucked in an easily accessible pocket, secured from loss by the chain threaded through her vest and attached to her pocket watch.

He seemed to eye it with satisfaction, nodding slightly.

She sat down on the floor, cross-legged, focusing her Will to prepare for a hard push.

With a wave of his hand, Professor Lacer created a sucking motion in the air behind her, pulling the door closed on the two of them.

For a moment, she felt trapped, in a small dark room with a powerful, dangerous man standing over her. Then she reminded herself how ridiculous she was being and began to pull energy from the brazier, pushing it into the spell array attached to the crystal ball of the artifact.

She bore down with her Will, tightening her grip on the magic, commanding the power to flow, more and more until the storage closet filled with light.

She felt the strain as she reached the edge of her capacity. She breathed into the stretch, holding tighter and pushing farther, just a little farther.

Finally, she reached the point where she could reach no further without snapping. She held the magic for a second, then two, and then released it slowly, making sure it didn’t burn her like a rope slipping too fast from her grip.

She rolled her shoulders and her jaw. Something inside her mind felt stretched, but not strained, loose and relaxed.

“Three hundred fifteen thaums,” Professor Lacer announced, one eyebrow raised.

It was more than she’d hoped. It meant maybe she could try to cast the spell soon, rather than waiting weeks or months to become strong enough.

“How many hours a week do you spend casting?”

Sebastien stood, dusting her backside off. “I don’t keep track,” she said, shrugging. “I just practice till I’m too tired to go on.”

He stared at her for a moment, then quenched the flames in the brazier and returned the items to the shelves they’d come from. “Your Will is not as abysmal as I feared, but it will not be nearly enough to cast that spell. Even with the variable casting times you have built into the process, you would need at least five hundred thaums of enduring capacity to finish the process in less than four or five hours. Perhaps six or even seven hundred. The final step would take you perhaps three hours, at that strength. I did not calculate it precisely.”

Siobhan’s stomach dropped somewhere down around her feet. Or at least it felt like it. Enduring capacity wasn’t the same as maximum capacity. She could hold about two thirds of her maximum for long periods, and even then casting at the edge of her limit for three hours in a single stretch was quite a feat. She needed to gain another two or three hundred thaums before being able to cast the spell. If she had been practicing magic for a few thousand more hours, gaining a few hundred thaums would be much quicker. But for someone at her strength, it would take her another thousand hours of practice or so, on the low end.

She slumped.

Professor Lacer eyed her for a while longer, then spoke as if he didn’t notice her discouragement. “New spells must be tested before being cast on anything, or anyone, of importance. I’m sure you’ve heard the somewhat famous example of Master Susva, who accidentally killed himself while testing new healing spells on himself.”

“Yes,” she said. “He damaged his body’s ability to create more blood, and died several weeks later. He didn’t understand the theory of what he was doing well enough, which is a common danger for spell-creators. Running a diagnostic spell on a test subject like a mouse might have saved his life.”

“Come with me,” he said. He lead her back to his office, where he scribbled something on a card of paper.

She moved to the fire in the corner, took out the rolled-up paper with the evidence of her sleep-proxy spell, and fed it into the low flames, making sure no little bits escaped. She told herself it wasn’t out of spite, but caution. She’d already done the same to the rest of the notes she’d taken. The only parts that remained outside her mind were in her grimoire, and that was warded against intrusion.

Professor noted her actions with an inscrutable look, handing her the card. “This book should be in the library. It explains how to run a proper experiment and interpret the data. Professor Gnorrish is competent enough, but he won’t be running his first term students through this type of rigorous analyses.” He paused, then said, “Your improvement might be quicker than you think. If you look in the more advanced research texts on the subject, you will find that not everyone advances at exactly the same rate. You have talent, Mr. Siverling. That will only become more and more apparent over time, and with dedication.”

‘Is he trying to cheer me up?</em>’ she wondered. Normally, hearing Thaddeus Lacer admit that she had talent would have made her ecstatic. Even now, if was…pretty awesome. “Thank you,” she said. “Is there any way to increase channeling capacity more quickly? Special exercises, or a spell…?”

“Many thaumaturges throughout history have asked that same question. If I were to give advice, I would tell you to continue doing whatever you have been doing.”

Somewhat disappointed, she turned the card over to the other side. It was a ticket for one contribution point. She looked up to him with wide eyes.

His lips twitched in a flicker-fast hint of amusement. “One point, for curiosity, and the good sense not to let it turn into foolishness. Learning how to thread the needle between greatness and recklessness is of the utmost importance. Complacency will lead you only to mediocrity. But recklessness in search of greatness can provoke horrors you never imagined.”

She tucked the card away in her vest pocket, trying not to grin. “I will not be reckless,” she promised. “I understand the danger.”

“Do you?” he seemed skeptical, but waved a hand at her before she could answer. “Off you go, now. I expect this little extracurricular project will not affect your performance in next week’s mid-terms.”

“Of course not,” she said, remembering her shameful performance on the entrance exam. “I won’t let people question your decision to have such a mediocre student admitted.”

His eyebrow quirked up again, and this time his smile was a bit slower. “See that you don’t,” he said without looking at her, focused on a half-read sheaf of papers on his desk.

Sebastien shut the door to his office behind her, her emotions a mix of buoyant light and sinking dark. ‘An extra two hundred thaums, minimum. That could take me until I’ve finished my third term and gotten my official Apprentice certification. It’s great that the spell is tenable, and it’s even better that Professor Lacer seems to have acknowledged me, but it doesn’t solve my problem. Is there any way to lower the spell’s power requirement without lowering its efficacy?’ Thinking of spending the next year or two in her current situation made her eyes burn with stymied rage.

‘I have to find a way. Not recklessly. It may not be worth my life, but it’s worth a lot. How can I cast a spell that I can’t cast?’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-72-first-fallen/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 72 - First Fallen

Sebastien

Month 1, Day 11, Monday 2:15 p.m.

Sebastien had wanted to have the sleep-proxy spell ready before the mid-terms, to help her perform better on the test, but after realizing all the work that was left to be done, she dropped that idea.

Sebastien spent most of her weekend the same as the one before. Brewing, resting, and then brewing some more, till her brain was foggy and her stomach screamed for calories to fill the void inside her. She had wanted to try some of the other potions that the Verdant Stag enforcers might find useful in a fight, like the liquid stone potion, or the bark skin potion, but there was no time, and with her limited resources she was trying to prioritize what she knew would be the most useful.

The absolutely wonderful thing was that after putting most of what she’d gained from selling off her old Conduits toward her debt, she was accruing slightly less interest every day, and also putting any new repayment directly toward the principle balance.

Monday dawned with a tangible air of panic. It was the week of the mid-terms, which would be held Wednesday through Friday in lieu of the normal class schedule, and a good portion of the students seemed to be surprised to realize they only had two days left to prepare.

Sebastien reviewed the notes she’d taken since the beginning of the term and took the time to look up the things she felt vague on, but didn’t bother to panic. She’d been diligent throughout the term so far, and at this point there was little that a couple more days of frantic cramming could do.

Professor Lacer started the mini-tournament in his class that day. Normal classes would be canceled from Wednesday through the end of the week, so they were getting a head start since completing the tournament would take longer than the extended period they had been assigned for the mid-term on Friday.

The students arrived to see that the classroom had been rearranged from its normal setup. Six desks had been moved to the lecture stage at the front of the room, with a large area cleared around them. A chair sat on either side of each desk, and an empty glass wheel with an iron sphere inside sat atop it.

The tournament brackets were written on the blackboard at the front of the room. There were three sections, grouping people who had started the class under one hundred thaums, between one hundred and two hundred thaums, and then everything above that.

The students crowded closer to the blackboard to see who they would be paired up against for the initial match, chattering excitedly amongst themselves.

Professor Lacer had been sitting at his desk when they came in, reading through a bound sheaf of papers. When the bell rang, he stood up. That simple movement was enough to quiet the entire classroom. “Our class’s miniature tournament starts today. We’ll use this time to go through elimination rounds, narrowing down the number of matches we need to get through on Friday. A single loss will see you disqualified to move on. If any match lasts longer than twenty minutes, both sides will be disqualified. I’ve requisitioned a couple student aides to keep track of wins and losses and keep things going smoothly, but I’ll personally be giving each of you your mid-term score.” He gestured to the two student aides, who waved to the room.

“What are we being graded on?” a student asked.

“Your Will,” Lacer said simply. “To be clear…your performance today is a chance to either confirm the assessment I’ve made of each of you throughout the term so far…or surprise me. I have made a reasonable estimation of both your dedication and your skill. Your grade will depend on the effort you have put into improving during the entire term so far as well as your ability to demonstrate your grasp of the various aspects of a powerful Will. I will be noting your capacity, your efficiency, your force, and your soundness. If you do surprise me, hope for your own sake that it is positively—a show of extra capability under pressure, rather than a disappointment.”

He moved to the front of the room and walked slowly pas them, watching them critically in a way that reminded Sebastien of Fekten. “In case any of you have forgotten, this class is called Practical Will-based Casting. There will be no theoretical or written portion to this exam. What matters is your ability to perform in a real-life situation with real stakes. Remember, the winners in each bracket will get contribution points in addition to a grade. Let’s get started. Six matches at a time, from the top.” He waved his hand impatiently and the first twelve students scrambled to find their partners and arrange themselves under his impatient stare.

“The desks have been marked with a direction, clockwise or counter-clockwise. If the sphere moves in your direction for more than three consecutive seconds, you have won,” he said.

When the first twelve contestants were seated, the spell arrays were written, and the student aides had their pocket watches, clipboards, and pens ready, Professor Lacer nodded sharply. “Begin.” He watched intently as the students obeyed.

Damien, Ana, and Sebastien stood to the side watching. Sebastien was in the third bracket. She looked around, but even a perusal of the stronger students in the class didn’t lead to an epiphany about the identity of her partner. She leaned closer to Damien, murmuring, “Do you know who S. Vanderville is?”

“Simon Vanderville,” Damien murmured back, not taking his eyes off the contestants. Less than a minute in, half of the matches had already been decided, with one side being unable to keep their opponent from moving the sphere against them for three consecutive seconds.

“Okay. But who is that?” she asked. “Can you point him out?”

Damien’s eyebrows rose, but when he looked at her sincere expression, he sighed and rolled his eyes in amusement. “I forgot. You erase ‘unimportant things’ like peoples’ names from your memory.” He jerked his chin toward a familiar looking man. “That’s Simon. You’ve actually partnered with him several times, Sebastien.”

Vanderville noticed her looking and gave her a solemn nod.

“He doesn’t stand a chance against you,” Ana said, giving Vanderville a sweet smile that contrasted her words.

Vanderville blushed and looked away.

Damien snorted. “Of course he doesn’t. Sebastien couldn’t even remember his name. He’s going to crush Vanderville like an ant.”

From her vague memories of practicing against him, Sebastien thought that was probably true. “Well, I’ll try not to be too ruthless about it. I want to make sure Professor Lacer has enough time to judge both of us thoroughly. If I just win in the first three seconds, that wouldn’t be fair to Vanderville.”

Damien stared at her for a second, his eyes narrowed. “Do you think you could? Win in the first three seconds, that is?”

Sebastien ran her tongue across the back of her teeth for a few seconds of contemplation. “I think so. If for no other reason than that it would probably take him off guard.”

Damien nodded, rubbing his fingers together thoughtfully. He turned to Ana. “What would you say the odds on that are?”

“At least three to one,” Ana replied immediately.

Damien turned back to Sebastien. “Do it. Don’t go easy on him.” With his fingers digging through his pockets, Damien turned away and began to weave through the crowd, murmuring something to the people he passed, occasionally pointing out Sebastien and his upcoming opponent to them.

Sebastien frowned after hm, then turned to Ana expectantly. “Is he taking bets?”

Ana smiled serenely. “As children, we used to do it frequently to get extra coin for spending, until all our friends refused to wager with us any more. He’s always enjoyed that look of surprise and dismay on people’s faces when he’s proven right.”

“Smug little shit,” Sebastien muttered.

Ana elbowed her in the side, not hard enough to really hurt.

Sebastien laughed. When Damien looked her way, Sebastien mouthed “Fifty-fifty,” to him.

With an expression of reluctance, he nodded and continued working the crowd.

“Wait. Should I be looking worried right now?” she said. “If I look too confident, they might not want to bet against me.” Ennis had loved to gamble, often to their detriment, but he’d also been a schemer that did whatever possible to tip the odds in his favor. Sometimes that worked out, and sometimes it got them into even more trouble.

Ana sighed deeply and walked away to chat with another group of students. At first, Sebastien thought she’d irritated the other girl, until she heard her say, “I know Sebastien probably doesn’t have a chance against Vanderville, but he’s my friend, so I’m still going to bet on him. What do you think? I heard Vanderville’s a third term student, on track to be a student liaison next term. Sebastien’s been practicing, but… He was up studying all night. He must be exhausted. Am I going to lose my coin?”

Some of the group members immediately agreed, with some variation of amusement and excitement, that she was going to lose her bet, and briefly consoled her before going to place their own wager with Damien.

Sebastien concealed her smile, doing her best to look both exhausted and secretly apprehensive.

The first set of matches took less than five minutes, on average, with each desk being vacated and filled again under the direction of the student liaisons as soon as a winner was declared.

Professor Lacer, leaning against his desk and observing, never moved from his spot or dropped his concentration, though his lips moved frequently as if he were muttering, and his pen scribbled notes as if controlled by an invisible hand.

After a few rounds of matches in the first bracket, Sebastien realized she was wasting precious time and not gaining much from watching, so she took out a book and moved to the edge of the room to read.

She became engrossed, and was surprised when one of the student aides approached her with irritation. “Siverling? It’s your turn.”

Sebastien hurriedly tucked the book back in her satchel and walked through the crowd to take a seat across from Vanderville at the desk. She drew her own preferred glyphs onto the Circle and began bringing her Will to bear.

She didn’t start channeling any of the power from the three small tea candles prepared for her. She was just preparing, coiling up like a snake about to strike.

As soon as the student aide said the word, “Start,” Sebastien unleashed all the tension she’d been gathering. She sucked at the candles, riding the edge between extinguishing them and drawing as much power from their heat as possible. Her Will bore down like a clenching fist, squeezing as much utility out of the power as she could.

The sphere spun around the wheel so quickly it turned into a blur.

Three seconds later, the student aide said, “Winner, Siverling!”

Vanderville stared at the ball as it slowly lost momentum. He looked up to Sebastien, then down to the ball.

He looked like a puppy that had just been struck by lightning and didn’t understand what had just happened.

Sebastien felt a little bad for him. “Better luck next time.” She stood and met Professor Lacer’s gaze for a moment, but his expression didn’t give anything away.

Damien jumped up and down from excitement, shaking Ana’s arm. “Did you see that!?” he exclaimed.

There were quite a few looks of shock and dismay among the other students, likely those who had bet against Sebastien.

Sebastien gave Damien a small smirk as she passed, the crowd parting for her as she returned to the edge of the room and took out her book again.

Damien spent the remainder of the class period extracting coin from the people who owed him.

When the bell rang to signify the end of the period, the class had finished all the initial elimination rounds and a handful of the second-level matches, too.

As they made their way back to the dorms, Damien counted the money and handed Sebastien her cut.

She grinned, infected by his enthusiasm. She’d just made nine silver from a little bit of showing off. University students were much too rich. ���That won’t keep working over and over,” she warned.

“Oh, don’t be such a downer, Sebastien,” Damien said. “What do you say we go down into the city tonight and get a real meal with our winnings? I can’t stand another night of the cafeteria slop while watching upper term students eat lobster and pheasant. It’ll be fun! And we need the energy for the upcoming tests. Come on! We can get the whole gang together.”

Sebastien frowned reluctantly. Any restaurant Damien picked was sure to be expensive, and as much as she wanted a good, filling meal, she also had the weight of her debt to the Verdant Stag hanging over her, and her need to prepare for not only the mid-terms, but her upcoming job as an assistant healer.

“Come on,” Damien wheedled. “You can make fun of Alec as much as you want. Doesn’t that sound refreshing?”

Ana let out a snort of amusement. “Damien’s right. You need to take breaks to perform at your maximum potential, Sebastien. I know a nice restaurant with great musicians, not too ostentatious. The Glasshopper has the most delightful desserts, and I really do mean delightful. There is even pudding that they set on fire when they serve it to you!” She reached out and tugged on Sebastien’s sleeve cajolingly, batting her lashes over those big blue eyes.

“I suppose,” she agreed reluctantly. ‘If I pretend money is not fungible, I can pay for it with the unexpected windfall I just made and not feel too pained.’

There was a crowd in the dormitory hallway, blocking them from getting into their dorm room.

Sebastien frowned, taking in the expressions of the students milling about. “Something’s wrong.”

Damien reached out to grab another student’s elbow. “What happened?”

“Someone died,” they said.

The words knocked the exuberance out of Damien’s eyes. “Who? Was it in our dorm?”

The student responded, but Sebastien wasn’t listening. Two infirmary employees were carrying a stretcher with a cloth-covered body through the doors, and the crowd pressed back and parted to give them space.

They passed right by Sebastien. Her senses took in every detail as the sounds around her seemed to blur and soften, like she was hearing them from underwater.

White cloth, contouring around the body and features just enough to make what lay below obvious.

The smell of hastily cleaned vomit and feces. Bodies released, when the life left them. It was common.

No crimson, no smell of blood.

The person’s hand slipped from the side of the stretcher and flopped down. It was almost voyeuristic, that peek at what lay beneath, and it felt like a perverse glimpse into something that should have been shrouded.

Without thinking, Sebastien reached out, grasping the dead boy’s pale wrist between her fingers and slipping it back under the protective covering of the white cloth.

His skin was still warm.

It was only once the stretcher was out of sight that the sound of the world rushed back in.

Near the doors of their dormitory room, a girl wailed, collapsing to her knees as two of her friends held her. Tears streamed down all three of their faces.

That, too, seemed like something private that Sebastien wasn’t meant to see. She turned her head away as a couple more healers from the infirmary tipped a potion against the girl’s lips, urging her to swallow.

Her wails of anguish cut off as the potion sedated her, and they carried her off, too, leaving her two crying, but less hysterical friends behind.

A warm hand slipped over the top of Sebastien’s, and she looked down to see that at some point, she’d grabbed Damien’s wrist and was squeezing it in a bruising grip. She let him go immediately, looking away from his expression of sympathy.

She turned back, not quite sure where she was planning to go, just wanting to get away from the dorms, from the too-close crowd and the feeling of suffocation.

Tanya was standing right beside her, an inscrutable expression on her face, her arms crossed over her chest.

Sebastien met her eyes for a second.

Tanya sighed. “Will-strain,” she said. “He won’t be the last.”

The words reverberated in Sebastien’s mind with a rumble of premonition.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-73-mid-terms-tournament/

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Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 73 - Mid-Terms & Tournament

Sebastien

Month 1, Day 11, Monday 4:00 p.m.

The healers passed around calming potions to all the students, leaving a bottle inside the cubicles of everyone who wasn’t there to take them directly.

Sebastien wasn’t stubborn about it. She took a dose—a single swallow—right away, then left the building for a long walk through the Menagerie, trying not to think past the magical haze of well-being the potion imparted.

She returned a few hours later, after the sun had set and the cold was starting to hurt enough that she noticed it through the waning power of the potion.

Back in the dorms, she learned from gossip she couldn’t help but overhear that the dead boy had been practicing magic with his friends, who were all cramming in what study they could before the tests. They had returned to the dorms together, and he’d complained of dizziness and lied down to take a nap.

His friend, the girl who’d been sedated and taken to the infirmary with him, had tried to wake him about half an hour later, when the smell of vomit and shit suddenly became noticeable.

It was too late. He was already dead.

The healers had declared it an aneurism caused by Will-strain.

That evening, before lights-out but after all the students had returned to the dorm, Tanya and Newton stood at the front of the room and gave another lecture about safety and ensuring the health of their minds and magic. “Go to sleep early tonight,” Tanya said, “and take a calming potion if you need one. Please be careful not to cast any strenuous magic under the effects of a calming potion, though, as it can impair your control. My advice is not to worry about the mid-terms or any other schoolwork. Your sanity and your life are more important than your homework, and this was a blow to all of us.”

“It will take time to recover,” Newton said in a rough voice. “We’re here for you if you need help, as are any of the healers, and your professors, too.”

Sebastien cast her dreamless sleep spell with as much power as she could pour into it, then used the esoteric humming spell that Newton had taught her to relax her body, and finally took another swallow of calming potion before sticking waxed cotton in her ears to block out the sounds of the other students. Finally, as prepared as she could be, she went to sleep.

Tuesday was subdued.

Damien seemed shocked by the death and kept wanting to talk about it, going in circles about how horrible and sad it was without really saying anything new.

Sebastien went through that conversation with him a couple times, then foisted him off on Ana and his other friends. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen death, of course, but she kept remembering the feel of the dead boy’s skin under her fingers, still warm. ‘One in fifteen of us will die or go insane before we become Masters,’ she reminded herself. ‘Tanya was right. He won’t be the last. But I won’t be one of them.’

She forced herself to focus during her classes, and after them on the basic books about emergency healing she’d borrowed from the library.

The latter, at least, gave her some comfort.

On Wednesday, normal classes were cancelled.

Instead, they started the day with Professor Gnorrish’s mid-term examination for Natural Science. The exam was a more elaborate version of his normal tests, with a lot of extra questions and some interactive content with pictures, like Sebastien remembered from the entrance exam. She could answer questions about everything they had covered in class, but when it came to higher-level extrapolations based on a deeper understanding of those same concepts, she found herself stymied at least half the time.

At least this test wasn’t never-ending, like the written entrance examination. She was able to get through the whole thing with enough time to go back to some of the questions she’d been unsure about and think on them a little harder.

After that came Professor Ilma’s exam for History of Magic. That one only had twenty questions, but they all needed to be answered in short-essay format. Sebastien knew Professor Ilma well enough by now not to bother regurgitating anything from a book. Instead, she made her own arguments and even openly admitted on a couple of questions that she had no idea about the answer, yet still gave all the evidence that might support some kind of conclusion.

She was still scribbling frantically when the bell rang to signal the end of the test period, and groaned in dismay as she tried to finish her current thought in still-legible handwriting before someone stopped her.

After almost five hours of test-taking, she was exhausted, but after dinner she asked around in the dorms and managed to find some second term students who also had Professor Pecanty. She asked them about his tests. She and he thought nothing alike, and she was worried that his tests would be as subjective as the literary analyses they did in class.

“Oh, yeah,” one second term student she’d found said. “Pecanty’s the worst. Each test is going to have a randomly-assigned essay question at the end. He told my my analyses was ‘shallow and simplistic.’”

Another student snorted from the corner. “That’s because you’re writing to the topic, not the teacher. I have a system. Gets me a perfect score every time.”

“You’re a suck-up,” the first student said.

His friend shrugged. “Well, the contribution points he gave me are why we have this room, so don’t complain too much when you’re benefitting from my largesse.”

Sebastien turned to the man with eagle-eyed interest. “What’s your system?”

“Easy,” he said, not even looking up from the magazine she recognized as the latest Aberford Thorndyke story. They were more popular than she’d suspected. “I make as many connections as possible, always. If there’s a short answer or essay question, I try to make at least two allusions to another story or poem we’ve talked about in class. Bonus points if it’s a play or opera I saw outside of the University, or a story one of my many fake aunts, uncles, or grandparents told me when I was little, accompanied by some poignant memory. In addition to that, I try to use at least five vivid, poetic, ‘feeling’ or ‘sensory’ words. He really loves it when I mention a smell or a taste. For example, a strong, salty sausage might remind me of my mother’s bloody hands in the winter, pale with cold, and the iron and shit I smelt as the pig she’d slaughtered bled out into a steel bucket, its squeal of terror still ringing in my ears.” His tone had taken on an imitation of Pecanty’s rhythm as he spoke the last bit. He waved his hand leadingly. “Like that.”

Sebastien nodded with wonder. “Can you give me some more examples? Just so I can get the feel of it?”

The boy laughed. “Dream on, firstie. I’m busy reading, so go bother someone else. Unless you’re willing to trade contribution points for it? I’ve been wanting to upgrade my meal plan…” He looked up, eyebrows raised expectantly.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Thank you for your help.”

He looked back down, losing interest in her immediately.

Sebastien asked for advice from a couple other students who had experience with Pecanty, but got nothing as good as that first offering.

The Sympathetic Science exam was first on Wednesday, and she was careful to make even more connections than reasonable, backing them up with sensory allusions that otherwise had no connection when necessary. She even tried to make her handwriting as beautiful as possible, because that seemed like the kind of thing that Pecanty might subconsciously favor. When she finished the test, she went back over every written answer, making sure that where possible, she’d made at least two allusions and used at least five evocative emotional or sensory words.

‘If this doesn’t work, there’s really nothing I can do. Except something like…blackmail?’ Sebastien shook her head at that fanciful thought and hurried quickly to lunch. She wanted to eat as soon as possible so that her stomach would be settled before the Defensive Magic exam.

She still arrived on the white flats slightly queasy, though that was more to do with apprehension about the grueling physical torture she was about to experience.

Using whatever magic allowed him to rearrange the stone of the white flats, Fekten had set up an almost comically difficult obstacle course. The students were to complete it as quickly as possible, with their grade depending on their speed for each section, and then take the written exam.

Looking at one section of the course where they were meant to leap across a scattered path of columns raised over a meter above the ground, Sebastien gulped. Another section required them to climb up a rope to cross a tall wall, then slide down the other side into a tunnel that was somehow filled with water. ‘I’ll be surprised if no one gets seriously injured.’

As if that thought were some sort of prophecy, Fekten introduced the gathered students to the healers he’d called to supervise his mid-term.

Sebastien let out a deep breath and massaged her neck, trying to let go of her anxiety. She almost wanted to try Newton’s humming spell, but there wasn’t enough time for it to really settle into her body before the test started.

Instead, she cast her esoteric pain-muffling spell. All it really did was help her to ignore the discomfort, not lessen it, but that was enough to let her push through. The obstacle course included a one mile run as well as a sprint through a corridor lined by mannequins that shot the same colored light-projectiles Fekten’s class had been practicing their footwork and dodging against.

Sebastien finished the course with a time slightly better than the middle of the pack, but could take no time to recuperate. She followed the students who had finished before her to run to the desks set up in the biggest room of the sim building. Throwing herself into a desk with a blank tests already waiting for her, she pulled out her pen.

Only then did she release the pain-muffling spell.

Her handwriting was even worse than normal, with the occasional ink-smudge from sweat, but she felt confident in her answers on all the various dangers and tactics that Fekten had been lecturing about every class period. It was even easier to remember it all with her lungs aching for air and her muscles burning with fatigue, actually.

She stumbled away from the white flats to the dorm showers, ate at the cafeteria, and then took a nap in an attempt to recover from her listlessness. ‘I cannot wait until something else can do some of my sleeping for me.’

Sebastien arrived at the Practical Casting classroom about ten minutes early, but there were already students gathered, and a couple of them were competing against each other in their tournament brackets while Professor Lacer supervised.

A girl approached Sebastien and said, “I’m your next opponent. Do you want to get a head start on the matches? Professor Lacer said we could.”

“Sure.” Starting ten minutes earlier could mean ten more minutes of recovery between it and the subsequent match.

They set up, waited for Professor Lacer’s requisitioned student aide to note their names, and then began to cast.

Sebastien’s opponent was familiar with her trick from the first match and was able to withstand the initial powerful push. “Did you really think the same trick would work twice in a row?” the girl asked.

Sebastien shrugged. “It’s not like I lose anything in the attempt. Besides, if I did not push hard, what if you took me by surprise instead?”

They settled into the struggle. The girl was strong, but after a few minutes it became apparent that she lacked practice. Her Will was neither as clear, sound, nor forceful as Sebastien’s.

As time went on, the girl’s candles began to flicker and flutter.

Sebastien sensed weakness and pushed even harder.

Her opponent squeezed her fists and glared at the ball that kept inching against her in little bursts, never quite for three seconds at a time, but growing ever-closer. Her face began to turn red from the effort, but she pulled too hard and one of her candles was quenched. The cold wick let out a small trail of smoke.

That was it. With three candles against two, Sebastien won immediately.

Damien and Ana arrived just as Sebastien was getting up from the table.

“No!” Damien cried dramatically. “I missed it? Sebastien, you should have stalled! I didn’t even get a chance to make any bets.”

Ana elbowed him in the side. “Damien. No one was going to bet against Sebastien again after what happened last time.”

Damien held his chin in his hand, frowning thoughtfully as he looked Sebastien up and down. “Not necessarily. He just needs to be up against an opponent no one thinks he can beat…”

“And then what if he loses? Why don’t you just stick with the winnings you already have and be content?”

“Sebastien definitely won’t lose,” Damien said.

“How can you know that? He’s in the most difficult bracket, against students from upper terms…”

They continued to dispute the issue, but Sebastien tuned them out.

The other matches finished, too, and when the bell rang, Professor Lacer announced, “We finish the tournament today! Since this is the last test period of the week, the matches can continue on even after the test period technically ends. With the number of students still remaining, this seems likely. Anything after the test period ends is entirely optional, and will be for contribution points, not your grade.”

Despite how fatigued most of the students probably were at the end of the mid-terms, most seemed enthused to see this contest through to the end. Of course, at least half of them had nothing to do except spectate today, having already lost their own matches on Monday, which probably contributed to their high spirits.

This time, Sebastien actually watched the matches with Damien and Ana. They murmured observations to each other, and she took note of those in her bracket who she might have trouble with.

Sebastien’s second match was also against a woman. Her opponent was good. Neither of them had a marked advantage, not with only three candles to draw on. They struggled back and forth, slamming at each other with bursts of unsustainable power that they had to release lest they quench their flames.

Sebastien bore down with her Will, tuning out everything else but the flames, the movement of the sphere, and her pure denial that the other woman could best her. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen.

If neither of them won soon, they would both be disqualified at the twenty-minute mark.

Eventually, though, Sebastien began to gain the edge. The longer and harder she pushed, the more eagerly the magic responded to her. The air of the Sacrifice Circle around her candles grew chilled, but their flames never sputtered. Each pulse of extra power she funneled into the spell flowed only more smoothly.

In contrast, Sebastien’s opponent couldn’t maintain the same level of focus and control she’d started the match with. Oh, she didn’t degrade drastically, but there had been no space for mistakes.

Sebastien moved the ball, not quickly, but inexorably, and her opponent couldn’t stop it in time.

“Winner, S. Siverling,” the student aide muttered, going to write her name on the blackboard next to her upcoming opponent.

Sebastien rolled her neck, which was a little stiff from staring down at the table for so long. She had Damien point out her next opponent, a man who was sitting away from the rest of the crowd with his eyes closed, a slight grimace on his face.

Sebastien felt a little apprehensive about competing with someone so calm, but reassured herself that she could win. ‘I’ll freeze the table if I have to. Everything within the Circle belongs to me, and it might be enough for one surprise shove of power that doesn’t rely on the candles.’

However, when the two of them were called up to compete, the man pushed reluctantly through the crowd, met her gaze, and shook his head. “I don’t think I can. I’ve got a headache, and I think I might be approaching Will-strain.”

Professor Lacer nodded. “Understood. Be sure to go to the infirmary if you need to,” he said, the pen on his desk still scribbling away by itself. He looked at Sebastien, then added, “I commend your good sense.”

“Forfeit, win goes to Mr. Siverling,” a student aide said.

A couple students groaned.

Sebastien looked around for the perpetrators, but the boys she suspected refused to meet her gaze. ‘Are they rooting against me?’

As if to make up for this, a group of young women standing to the side gave her exited smiles and gestures of encouragement. “You can do it, Sebastien!”

The next matches took more time, as the more powerful people were pitted against each other and put up a better fight. Damien lost his third match, but put up a strong resistance, and Professor Lacer even gave him a small nod when it was over.

Sebastien suppressed a spike of jealousy.

Ana, with a dogged determination that Sebastien found surprising, won her own match, but then excused herself from the tournament to avoid Will-strain, too.

By Sebastien’s fourth match of the day, there were only a handful of contestants left in her bracket. She sat across from a young man who was growing a thick winter beard, which was impressive for a student their age.

“Nunchkin,” he introduced himself with a nod.

“Siverling,” she said with a nod of her own.

In his Sacrifice Circle, Nunchkin wrote the glyph for “wax” instead of “fire,” or even the less-common “heat.”

Sebastien had a premonition of doom as soon as she saw that, but it was too late to respond to it even if she could think of some way to do so, because the student aide was already counting them down, and among the cheers of their classmates, the match began.

Sebastien slammed on the sphere immediately, and it moved under her Will, but not for long, as Nunchkin opposed her.

The sphere sat still for a long while, trembling minutely under the opposing forces. Then, slowly, it began to shift in Nunchkin’s direction, against her.

Sebastien stopped it, but she couldn’t do more than that. It sat trembling again, and then slowly rolled against her.

‘No.’

The sphere stopped again, but Nunchkin just kept on pouring more and more power into the spell.

Her eyes flicked up to see that the wax of one of Nunchkin’s candles was visibly disappearing, as if a few large, invisible ants were nibbling at it.

Turning matter directly into movement was an incredibly advanced conversion. Using matter as a power source rather than a transmutable component was possible, but generally inefficient and gruelingly difficult. It was why most sorcerers used flames, beast cores, or even something like the power of the flowing water in a river to provide the energy for their spells.

Running out of the specified form of energy and having the spell resort to using matter instead was one of the most common ways to lose control of your magic and get Will-strain. Put plainly, it was beyond her.

The little spots of missing wax grew.

Sebastien’s eyes narrowed. As the spots grew larger, she could see their shiny, liquid edges, and faint shimmers in the air.

‘But maybe he’s not using the wax directly. Could he be using his Will to create a wick-like construct, and burning up the wax? If he’s using the light as well as the heat, that might be why I can’t see any visible flames.’

Her epiphany had cost her in a moment of distraction. Nunchkin had pushed the ball against her for almost a full revolution of the glass wheel and was about to win.

In a sudden effort, Sebastien used the idea she’d come up with earlier and sucked all the heat from the table beneath her Sacrifice Circle. The frosted-over section of the slate table groaned from the sudden temperature change. It was enough to match Nunchkin and even push back for a moment, but the heat was gone soon enough, not quite enough to keep her going for the full three seconds as he increased his own spell’s power to oppose her.

Still, it had bought her a little time to think.

Wax did not need a wick to burn, technically. The wick was useful because it drew melted wax up into the heat of the flame and burnt it there. Most of what the flame was devouring was actually the wax, not the wick at all. The problem with trying to burn wax without the wick was that the substance would disperse the heat throughout its volume, making it difficult to maintain the combustion point. The wick kept a small amount of liquid wax at the right spot, without enough volume to disperse the heat before it caught fire and was converted into more heat, light, and various gasses.

With the incredibly rudimentary spell array that Professor Lacer insisted on, what she did with the magic could be any number of things that used “heat” for the purpose of creating “movement.”

A candle flame created around eighty thaums, give or take. Three candles left her stymied at a little under two hundred thaums, total. But there was much more energy than that within the entire candle.

Sebastien drew on the heat in the melted wax of one of her own candles, experimentally, pulling at the part around the base of the flame, drawing it up into the wick.

It worked.

The flame flared higher, the inefficiency of the burn clear in the dark tendril of smoke that began to curl up from the flame’s orange tip. Suddenly, she had more energy to work with, maybe an extra dozen thaums.

‘<em>I have all the power I need. It is only a matter of Will. Always, always, only a matter of Will.’

Nunchkin actually revealed a small smile, though he didn’t look at her, his eyes trained on the sphere with unwavering focus.

Splitting her concentration on creating movement in the wax, as little as it was, with controlling the iron sphere, made things more difficult. But it was more than worth it for the extra power.

She repeated her trick with the other two candles, sending their flames flaring angrily higher.

She had the upper hand again, for a moment.

But it was only a moment.

With the inexorability of the setting sun, Nunchkin kept pouring on more and more power.

Sebastien would never have been able to keep fighting back if she hasn’t spent so many hours practicing the sphere-spinning spell.

Nunchkin’s spell array was glowing with inefficiency despite his prowess.

Her’s didn’t, not even the barest flicker.

There was enough heat for her in the candle wax, and she flared her candles higher and higher until they were like small torches, ready to burn out before their time.

But her Will could only channel so much.

The sphere began to move against her, once more.

She slammed her Will against the it like she might throw her body against a barred door.

But Nunchkin was unfazed, and she felt the taut fist of her Will start to tremble with strain. ‘I have to let go,’ she realized. ‘I’ve lost.’

She did so with careful control, watching the sphere spin the wrong direction, faster and faster until it became a blur.

She almost didn’t hear it when the match was called in Nunchkin’s favor.

As she stood up from the desk, Damien slammed into her, grabbing her arm and screaming in her ear to be heard past the cheers filling the room. “Planes-damned, I’ll kick an earth-aspected weta if that wasn’t one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen!”

Damien pulled her through the crowd, high-giving people as they passed, crowing unintelligibly amid the noise as if he himself had just won the entire tournament.

Luckily, Nunchkin drew most of the attention away from them as they got to the edge of the crowd.

Rubbing her forehead, Sebastien moved to an empty desk a distance away from the front of the classroom and slumped down into the chair.

Even Ana was grinning widely. “Good job, Sebastien. That was indeed very impressive. I’m sure Professor Lacer was pleased.”

Damien nodded, still vibrating with excitement. “What you did with the candles? Oh, I think I gasped out loud when I saw it! I never even thought of doing something like that, but the rules definitely don’t say you can’t, and Professor Lacer must not have a problem with it, or he would have said something.”

Sebastien sighed, letting her shoulders slump. “I don’t know what you think was so impressive about that display. I lost.”

Damien’s excitement dimmed, and he shared a look with Ana.

“You put up an impressive fight,” Ana said. “You proved that your Will isn’t only powerful, but sound, and forceful, and clear.”

“You’re only a first term student, Sebastien,” Damien said. His voice was gentle, as if explaining something worryingly simple to her, and he doubted her ability to grasp it. “Nunchkin is a fourth-term. And I heard someone saying he’s taken this class twice before.”

Sebastien’s eyes widened.

“So you see, no matter how much of a prodigy you are, you can’t expect to beat that kind of experience, and—” Damien cut off as Sebastien let her forehead thunk onto the table.

“Sebastien?” he asked.

She raised her head, unable to keep the disappointment from her face. “You’re telling me I lost to someone who failed this class the first two times?”

Ana raised her eyebrows and lifted a hand to her mouth to disguise sudden amusement. “I think you may be focusing on the wrong part of that statement, Sebastien.”

Damien blinked a few times, then shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “Umm. Yes. What Ana said. Let me explain this—”

Sebastien waved away their counterproductive attempts to console her. “It’s okay. I’ve got time. I’ll catch up to him. I definitely won’t fail this class and have to retake it!” she announced, clenching her fists.

“Yes, well…good,” Damien said, seeming a little confused.

They returned to watch the last couple matches between semifinalists, and Sebastien kept an eye out for other tricks she could appropriate.

Nunchkin and a girl with a fierce glare were the two finalists.

Nunchkin’s opponent used the same technique as Sebastien to increase the amount of power she had to draw on, and came closer than Sebastien had to taking Nunchkin out in the beginning of the match, but still failed to beat the pressure of his slow, inexorable ramp-up.

Nunchkin was declared the winner of the largest bracket, as well as the overall tournament, and awarded the biggest contribution point prize. He smiled humbly and gave a bow to Professor Lacer.

Sebastien wanted to scowl, but realized that would be childish, and so tried to keep her expression bland, if not exactly pleasant.

“Well done!” Professor Lacer said in a loud voice that cut through the chatter. “Well, to most of you. It is time for the prizes. As promised, the winner of each bracket will receive fifty contribution points. However, those of you who put up a good fight or displayed some piece of exceptional control or ingenuity will also be rewarded for your efforts.”

The students cheered, laughing and yelling and generally making a ruckus as Professor Lacer called students out from the crowd and handed them a ticket noting their points, murmuring a few words of praise to each.

To her surprise, even though she hadn’t even gotten to the top three of her bracket, Professor Lacer called her name.

She pushed through the crowd, who were muttering something about her being at Apprentice-level capacity already, and took the ticket. Five contribution points.

Lacer nodded at her. He didn’t smile, but it was almost as good when he said, “Impressive problem-solving and control under pressure.”

Struggling to hold her own expression to merely professional satisfaction rather than profound relief and even a little bit of glee, she gave him a shallow bow. “Thank you.”

He nodded and called the next name.

Sebastien tucked the ticket into her pocket, patting it in satisfaction as she returned to Damien and Ana. “Well. I suppose I didn’t do too badly.”

Damien rolled his eyes hard enough they might have gotten stuck. “Right.”

“So. Restaurant? Live music? Teasing Alec?” Ana asked, grinning winningly.

Sebastien was in too good a mood to refuse.

Besides, her brain and Will both needed a break.

She needed to be fully rested for the attack on the Morrows, after all.

A note from AzaleaEllis

The Patreon bonus short story, "Thaddeus Interlude - Codename: Moonsable" is complete and up on Patreon! It's longer than I anticipated, coming in at about 7500 words, or about the length of two average chapters.

Blurb: Thaddeus plans to introduce the second exercise of the term to his Intro to Practical Will-based Casting students. But when the rogue magic sirens go off, he is called away to deal with the particularly fascinating source of the turmoil.

Thank you to everyone who's supported me by leaving a review, sharing this story with their friends, through Patreon, or by buying a copy of the book. It's much appreciated.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-74-the-glasshopper/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

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Chapter 74 - The Glasshopper

Sebastien

Month 1, Day 15, Friday 6:00 p.m.

Ana’s choice of restaurant was indeed amazing.

Everything about the Glasshopper was subtly expensive, from the fine uniforms of the waiters to the spells woven into the floor around the tables to keep conversations from being overheard. Nothing gaudy, like gold filigree or eye-drawing enchantments, just dark woods and marble.

There was a small string and brass band on the stage, accompanying a woman with rounded, bright-colored feathers sprouting from the sides of her face and her scalp where her ears and hair would have been. The swayed on stage, crooning in a soft, chocolatey voice that somehow managed to reach the whole building equally. Her feather-lashed eyes were closed, and her voice shivered over Sebastien’s skin like a sensual, ephemeral touch.

“Is that a siren?” Sebastien whispered in awe. “They’re so rare, I’ve only ever heard of them, never seen one.”

Ana sighed in appreciation. “They always have the best music. This is the best restaurant outside of the Lilies.”

Alec Gervin’s mouth had dropped open, and there might have been a little bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. The waiter had to prompt him several times before he jerked back to awareness and followed them to their table.

Sebastien was in a good enough mood that she didn’t even take the opportunity to cut Gervin down to size.

Waverly Ascott was without a book for the first time Sebastien had seen her. “Bring the dessert sampler,” she told the waiter as soon as they’d been seated. “Enough for everyone.” She pulled her dark hair back from her face, tying it in a high ponytail as if preparing for battle.

Brinn Setterlund sat next to her, examining the miniature, living tree in the center of their table with interest. He reached forward to stroke it a branch, and Sebastien wasn’t sure if it was her imagination that it seemed to shift to caress his hand in return.

“No appetizers or entrees?” the waiter asked, entering Ascott’s order on a small journal-sized artifact that would send the information directly to the kitchen.

“If we’re not full after the dessert platter,” Ascott said.

“Good idea,” Ana agreed.

“Bring some champagne, too,” Rhett Moncrieffe said, lounging half sideways on his own chair, the smile on his face belying the boredom in his tone. “We just finished our University mid-terms. We’re celebrating.”

“Congratulations, young masters,” the waiter said.

When the desserts arrived, they drew a gasp from Sebastien.

Ana grinned at her. “I know. Exquisite.”

Each confection was a tiny sculpture. Miniature pixies made of toffee and flakes of phyllo dough so thin they were translucent. A dragon made of a dozen different types of chocolate. Sprites with shimmering wings of all different colors that melted at the first touch of a tongue.

The pièce de résistance were the grasshoppers in the center. They were made of crystallized nectar, and they moved as if they were alive. They glittered like crystal, bright and transparent.

Ascott snatched one out of the air as it tried to jump off the table and twisted off its head. She popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes in bliss as the spell-animated confection twitched and stilled in her hand.

“Glasshoppers,” Sebastien murmured, suddenly understanding where the restaurant got its name.

Alec Gervin’s mouth had fallen open in dismay. “Did that— Can it feel pain? I don’t want to eat something that’s still alive. Where are all its organs?”

Damien rolled his eyes. “It’s animated, not alive, Alec. No different than a dueling board piece. An edible toy.”

Sebastien looked at the other confections, which didn’t seem to be animated. “Are there other magical dishes on the menu?”

“A few other animated desserts,” Ana said, ripping open the stomach of a chocolate dragon to reveal miniature sweetmeat entrails. “There are also some dishes with magical ingredients, like the golden-apple pie or ice lion carpaccio. But you have to try the creme brûlée. They set it on fire!”

That was a little disappointing. “They could do so much more!” she said, ideas immediately popping to her mind. “It wouldn’t be so impossible, with a combination of alchemy and artificery. The dishes could impart cool little effects, like letting the customers blow bubbles out of their mouths, or create temporary glamours to give them rabbit ears, or jinxing them to talk backward for the next few minutes.”

Ana lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Not a bad idea. The costs would be rather outrageous, but that only makes it more exclusive and desirable. Perhaps someone in the Rouse Family would be interested, even to sub-contract. It might fall under their ‘entertainment’ domain.”

Sebastien couldn’t help but think of what Oliver might say about the way the current system stifled industry and potential growth, but was distracted soon enough by the arrival of their champagne. She’d tried the drink before, when Ennis was schmoozing someone wealthy, but never anything like the offering from the Glasshopper. The bubbles burst in her nose and tickled until she, and all the others at her table, were laughing from the sensation. She was careful not to drink too much, though, ever-conscious that she was never truly safe.

They ate and drank and chatted about nothing in particular, and Sebastien found herself thinking that while they were rich, entitled, and sometimes snobbish, Damien’s group of friends, beyond Ana, wasn’t entirely horrible. Brinn Sutterland, with his quiet stillness and slow smile, was probably her favorite.

When the siren on stage ended her set and a new musical group arrived to take her place, Moncrieffe went over to flirt with her.

Sebastien did a double-take as the woman handed him a cloth napkin, and Moncrieffe swaggered back to their table a little unsteadily.

“That was a siren. Did she just give you her contact information?” Sebastien asked incredulously.

Moncrieffe smirked at her, patting the pocket with the napkin proudly. “Her address. I’m invited for a ‘private show.’” He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically.

The others groaned good-naturedly. “Please, spare us the details,” Ascott said acerbically, tossing a cream-covered berry at him.

Moncrieffe caught it with his mouth. Even he looked surprised by this act of dexterity, considering his current state of inebriation, which sent them all into a round of laughter.

After a while, with their bellies full and the champagne no longer bubbling, the mood grew somber.

“I heard another student in our term is in the infirmary for severe Will-strain,” Brinn said in a soft voice, playing with Ascott’s small fingers. “She was in one of the other groups. Her mind is gone, and the healers are not optimistic about her chances of recovery.”

Gervin nodded. “I heard about that,” he said, his tongue a little clumsy from the alcohol. “She can still feed herself and use the chamber pot when prompted, though. She’s stuck in her hallucinations and doesn’t respond to human stimulus.”

“How do you know this?” Damien asked.

“I asked,” Gervin said simply.

“There have been a dozen or so already this term, if you combine deaths and the permanent, debilitating injuries,” Moncrieffe said, his head in Damien’s lap as he tried to coax Damien into scratching his scalp for him. “You don’t hear about all of them. Not the kind of thing the University wants to advertise, you know. I imagine you would become rather numb to it all after a while, anyway. I know this because there are some lovely young ladies working in the infirmary.”

Brinn hummed. “Do you think they push us too hard?”

“Yes,” Alec said immediately.

Brinn continued, “It seems like if they were truly worried about our safety, they would not increase the pressure on new students with the ten percent mandatory failure rate. It’s dangerous to everyone, not just those at the bottom of the list.”

Ana was using a knife and some sticky dessert leftovers to turn her napkin into a tiny dress for the only remaining sculpted pixie. “Magic is dangerous, but there are wards everywhere. Both small and large. They do a lot to mitigate the danger that students might cause themselves and others.”

‘Why didn’t those wards stop the explosion in Eagle Tower?’ Sebastien wondered. ‘Did Tanya deliberately damage them first? And if so, would the evidence of that have been destroyed by the alchemical explosion? How likely is it that Tanya would be found out?’ Sebastien was entirely unsure, partially because she didn’t know enough about the power of the people who might be willing to cover up for Tanya. No one had questioned either Sebastien or Damien about that day.

Rhett, still resting on Damien’s lap, shook his head, his eyes closed. “There’s no reason to be so desperate over it. Students who fail can just retake that term. It would be even more unsafe if the University let them continue when they’re not fit to do so.”

Sebastien almost scoffed aloud. ‘Not everyone can afford to retake a term. Many of those students who would be most likely to be at the bottom ten percent are commoners who must get their Apprentice certification and a good job right away, or their families will be ruined. Even only taking the minimum four classes for all three terms, the absolute minimum it could cost is nine hundred gold, and that doesn’t take into account a Conduit, or the books and tutoring it takes to pass the test in the first place, or anything else.’

Damien, to her surprise, shook his head. “If that policy was really to keep the incompetent students from having a chance to do too much damage, then why are there more deaths in the upper terms?”

“People get cocky,” Moncrieffe replied immediately. “They think they’re experts and they get a little too confident. It would be worse if the upper terms were also filled with people without a strong foundation in sorcery.”

Brinn sighed. “Maybe. It is sad, though.”

Ascott squeezed his fingers, and he smiled at her.

“Well, what’s the alternative?” Moncrieffe asked, shrugging. “Not learn magic?”

“That’s excessive, of course,” Ana said.

“Not accept those who are statistically more likely to hurt themselves with it, then?” he asked.

“Poor, less-educated people, you mean,” Sebastien said.


“Exactly. Everyone knows the risks, and they accept them. The University is doing what they can to mitigate the danger.”

Sebastien wasn’t sure that was true, but she wasn’t going to argue aloud.

“It is true that accidents as well as deaths have gone down significantly in modern times,” Damien conceded. “Some people, like my father, actually want to go back to the old, harsher ways. He thinks the softness is stunting the potential growth of our nation.”

“Having more of our future thaumaturges dying would stunt the growth of Lenore,” Ana snapped back, glaring at the doll-sized dress she was wrapping around the dessert pixie.

Damien shrugged. “Of course it would. But good luck using logic to win an argument with him, or people like him.”

“The man is a sadist,” Ana snapped, a little too loudly. She looked around, realizing her slip, then to Damien, who didn’t respond. She pressed her lips together.

“Enough of this depressing talk,” Moncrieffe said, sitting up from Damien’s lap. “What we need is drinks.” He raised an arm to wave down the ever-attentive waiter.

Damien looked to Sebastien searchingly, but she kept from showing either sympathy or any particular interest in Damien’s home life. She knew she hated it when people pried, as if her life was a piece of juicy gossip meant to entertain them. She wanted pity even less. “You were in the top three hundred of the entrance examinations, right?” She didn’t really need to ask. She knew, because she’d heard him bragging about it enough times. “Do you think you managed to maintain that rank this time around?”

Gervin groaned and turned to the approaching waiter. “Whiskey!” he ordered. “And no talking about grades. I don’t wish to think about that. If my scores weren’t good enough… Well. Lord Westbay and my father are friends for a reason.” He turned, a little awkwardly, toward Sebastien. “That tutor you recommended, Newton Moore, he is rather good.”

She waited for Gervin to continue, but apparently that was all he meant to say. “He is,” she agreed.

When the waiter brought the alcohol, Sebastien even let herself be coerced into having a single shot of Whiskerton’s Whiskey of Well-being, which, as advertised, made her feel like she was being held on her grandfather’s lap, in front of the fire, about to fall asleep with the deep knowledge that he would never let anything bad happen to her.

Of course, something bad did happen to her. Had happened to her.

Now, it was up to her to protect herself.

She refused to have any more of the whiskey, even as the others did so, slipping away instead to check on Tanya’s location, which was just where it should have been.

Alec insisted loudly on paying the bill for all of them, and Sebastien didn’t protest too hard when she saw the prices. Her portion alone would have been about three gold.

When they left, most of the others were drunk, and she reminded them all, “Do not drink and cast. Alcohol and magic do not mix.”

Brinn’s face was flushed, his eyes glassy, and he tried to climb a tree on the side of the street as they were walking back to the University, forcing them to drag him down and away.

Ascott muttered something in a language Sebastien didn’t understand, then took out a sobering potion and forced a partial dose down Brinn’s throat. “It will make you have to pee,” she warned.

“I’ll drain my dragon,” Brinn slurred reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I know how to do it, do it all the time. ’S easy.” Which for some reason all the others thought was the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard.

Feeling like a mother with small children, or the shepherd of a flock of cats, Sebastien herded them back to the University.

They took the transport tubes that crawled up the white cliffs, and the others spilled out at the top, laughing and loopy.

Alec threw up inside one. “Oops. Umm. Call one of the servants, I seem to have made a mess.” He stumbled out, barely avoiding falling in the pool of his own vomit.

Sebastien glared at him hard enough that if she were a free-caster, she might have set him on fire. “Give him some of that sobering potion, Ascott,” she ordered. She stared at the disgusting puddle, wondering if she knew a spell to handle the situation, because she definitely wasn’t going to touch that with her hands. She knew a spell to draw water down towards a Circle drawn on the ground, but it was meant to quickly dry off after getting wet, not to mop a chunky liquid sideways along the floor.

In the end, she took out a piece of paper from her satchel and wrote a note apologizing and asking the workers who would find it and the vomit in the morning, to, “Please bill Alec Gervin for cleaning services and any inconvenience.”

Grumbling the whole while, Sebastien managed to get everyone back to the dorms and, relatively quiet, and into bed. She didn’t bother trying to get them to drink water or any more potions. ‘Let their hangovers punish them on my behalf,’ she thought vindictively.

Luckily, at least half of her other dorm-mates were still awake, exuberant with their freedom from the midterms, so her group didn’t cause too much trouble.

On Saturday morning, Moncrieffe was the only one besides Sebastien who wasn’t sick and exhausted, which was astounding as he’d imbibed the most out of all of them.

Leaving the others with a smug smile, Sebastien got an update on Tanya from Newton, made sure she had the bone disk to track the other girl if she slipped away again, and ordered a hangover-relief draught from the infirmary for Damien, so he could properly do his job keeping watch while Sebastien was gone.

She spent the whole day brewing Humphries’ adapting solution. It was a process, requiring her to distill her water to purify it before then using that distilled water to brew. The instructions assumed the brewer would be making at least seven liters at a time, but not only was Siobhan too weak for that, her cauldron wasn’t big enough, and she would have had to borrow a stock pot from the kitchen to brew in, which wasn’t ideal.

Instead, she brewed in two-liter batches. About one liter was a single dose when using it as a blood replacement for an adult human. Severe blood loss might require more. This alchemical solution was even more magically intensive than the regeneration-boosting potions, though to be fair the dose size was also much bigger.

She’d waited until as close to the attack to make it, both because she needed her Will as strong as possible to attempt it, and because its shelf life was short. This way it might still find use even if they didn’t need it immediately.

She finished off the day with a single batch of the regeneration-boosting potions and returned to the University. Thankfully, Tanya had done nothing suspicious while Sebastien was gone.

On Sunday, she did no brewing. She spent most of the day in the library reviewing her study on emergency healing. That evening, knowing she wouldn’t be able to slip away to follow if Tanya escaped Newton and Damien, Sebastien considered giving the bone disk to Damien.

Instead, she sat down with him in private in a quiet section of the library and said, “I’ve heard rumblings of violence in the city tonight. Some skirmish between criminals. If Tanya leaves, just let me handle it. It might not be safe for you.”

Damien wasn’t satisfied by this at all. “What? No, I can handle myself, Sebastien, I’ve had plenty dueling training. I do better than you in Fekten’s class.”

“When you can cast your own broad-spectrum ward spell, or dodge well enough to beat Rhett in a duel, you can place yourself in mortal danger.”

“You’re going out!”

“I’m not going to be going near any of the conflict. If Tanya leaves, she might be. You’re no match for her, Damien. Trust me. A little extra information isn’t worth the danger. Still, let me know if she leaves. I’ll keep track of her from afar.”

Damien scowled mutinously.

‘This is a problem,’ she thought to herself. ‘I’m going to have to come up with better arguments and excuses if I want to keep working with him while still keeping him in the dark. He’s too curious, too nosy, to just be a good little soldier and follow instructions.’ She at least had the comfort of knowing that if he tried to follow her in any way except mundane tailing—if he tried to scry for her—she would know and be able to counteract it. Still, she needed to be careful with him and prepare in case his gullibility wore off. ‘I should deal with this as soon as possible, before it becomes even more hasslesome.’

“Damien,” she said, trying to seem compassionate rather than irritated. “Do you remember your vow?”

The scowl slipped away from his face and he straightened. “Of course. I vowed my silence, to keep our secret, knowing when to speak and when to remain silent. I vowed my loyalty, to support us and our efforts faithfully and fully, with true heart and steady hand. I vowed my resolve, to persevere through hardships and the wear of time, exerting myself to fulfill the cause. Freedom, and enlightenment. I—” He swallowed. “I saw beyond the edge of the sky.”

He said the words seriously, almost reverently, but all Sebastien could think, hearing them recited with surprisingly perfect recall, was, ‘I can’t believe I came up with something so cheesy. It’s like something out of a cheap adventure novel.’

“How long has it been since you stood before the stars and made that vow, and you’re already forgetting?”

“I—I’m not forgetting! I just—I want to help!”

“You’re not ready,” she said softly. “And you’re not needed, either. There are other people who are more prepared and able to deal with dangerous situations outside the University. You don’t need to know about those people. In fact, it’s best that you don’t. This world can be darker than you imagine, Damien.” She looked away, her fingers pressing a little too hard against the wooden arms of her chair.

“It takes time, and a lot of it, to prove your strength, your dedication, and your competence,” she continued. “I hope you don’t prove me wrong about you. I told you this would be boring. It’s not a story. There is no glory to be had. You and your job are important, but you are not entitled to more. If we feel that you are undermining the integrity of our mission because of greed, petulance, or impatience, you will be removed.”

He was staring at her with too-wide eyes.

She sighed. “That was not a threat. Trust me, Damien. If you are needed, you will be called upon. Until then, please be content to play your part. It may not be glamorous, but perhaps that’s because you don’t understand its importance.”

The agitation had gone from Damien’s shoulders and his cheeks were slightly pink. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I won’t jeopardize the mission. I’ve come to my senses.” He fiddled with his collar self-consciously. “I guess I was acting somewhat like a Petunia, right?”

Sebastien stared at him blankly for a couple seconds, then realized he was talking about the character of Aberford Thorndyke’s niece. In several stories, the headstrong girl jumped into dangerous situations beyond her ability to handle and only caused more trouble for the other characters who then had to rescue her—at danger to themselves or the greater goal. “Well, at least you’re not Investigator Amherst.”

Damien rolled his eyes so hard his head lolled back. “Give me a stunner to the head if I ever act like him.”

Having gotten her way and thus in a more accommodating mood than usual, Sebastien slouched to the side. She took an invisible pipe out of her mouth, affected an extra deep voice, and said, “Amherst, you do an absolutely fantastic impression of a gorilla whose mother dropped it from the tree as an infant one too many times.”

Damien’s mouth dropped open. “Radiant Maiden, was that a Thorndyke impression? Did you just make that line up on the spot? It was perfect! Do another. Another!” He leaned forward, so eager Sebastien thought he might grab and try to literally shake the words out of her.

She slipped her watch out of her vest pocket, making a fake expression of surprise. “Oh, is that the time? I really must be leaving. Sorry, ta ta, goodbye.” She got up and hurried from the room with a stride that was only just below a jog.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-75-these-violent-delights/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

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Chapter 75 - These Violent Delights

Oliver

Month 1, Day 17, Sunday 9:15 p.m.

A trio exited the Morrows’ main warehouse near the docks, illuminated only by the crystals of the streetlamps.

Oliver waited to assure himself of their identities, then moved to intercept them with a couple men of his own. He recognized the slightly wide gaits of those who were more used to the pitch and roll of a ship’s deck than the steadiness of dry land. Even if the Morrows did know that they were surrounded and being watched, and were trying to trick him and his people into letting someone important escape, he doubted they would be good enough actors to fool him.

The short man at the front of the trio drew a battle wand as soon as Oliver stepped from the shadows, sinking into a fighting stance. His companions did the same.

Oliver’s wand was in his hand, but he didn’t lift it. “Captain Eliezer,” he greeted. “I mean you no harm.”

The man and his companions had just left a meeting to inspect the latest shipment of delivered goods with Lord Morrow. Captain Eliezer had, some time before, agreed to smuggle certain items for Oliver, but apparently didn’t recognize him by voice alone. “What is the meaning of this?” Eliezer demanded.

With a pop of suction, Oliver removed his mask.

Eliezer recognized him then, but did not seem comforted. “Lord Stag,” he said, his wand still pointed at Oliver. “This seems a rather inauspicious meeting.”

“Does it? I hadn’t hoped for that to be the case. You and I have mutual interests, after all.”

Eliezer’s eyes narrowed, his wand dropping slightly as he peered around into other dark shadows and past curtained windows, where more of the Verdant Stag and Nightmare Pack forces were gathered. He seemed to realize he stood little chance in an altercation, even with his backup. “I don’t suppose you’re also here to warn me off? No more work with the Morrows, if I know what’s good for me? Things seem to have taken a much more antagonistic turn since the last time I berthed in Gilbratha.”

Oliver smiled at that freely offered piece of information about Eliezer’s meeting with Lord Morrow, knowing it was deliberate. “No. That is not my purpose here tonight. You may deal with who you wish. However, you may have trouble completing future business with the association of people formerly known as the Morrows.”

“Formerly?”

“Soon to be formerly,” Oliver amended.

Eliezer squinted sun-wrinkled eyes at him. “You are quite confident.”

“I am extremely confident.”

Eliezer paused, assessing the shadows once more. “The majority of my business is with this ‘soon to be former’ group…”

Oliver nodded easily. “I’m aware, but don’t worry too much, my good man. There may be some transition pains, as I’m not sure my organization will need the same things as theirs did. You may need to take a few oaths of secrecy for the sake of our security measures, but rest assured that you will have continued business, no matter the name of those in charge. You have a reputation as the best smuggler in the city for a reason, after all.”

“Why the ambush in the middle of the night, then?”

Oliver smiled, not bothering to moderate the expression.

Eliezer tensed, unsettled.

“If I am correct, you haven’t taken any oaths of secrecy yet. I’m interested to know about the shipment they just received.”

Eliezer hesitated, but Oliver just kept smiling at him, and the older man gave in soon enough. “You’ll keep me out of this? I’m in the business of shipping, and that’s all. I’ll have no truck with your power struggles.”

“Of course.”

Ten minutes later, Captain Eliezer left with his men, and Oliver knew more details about the internal layout of the building, the number of men within, and the weapons delivered in the shipment than his people had been able to gather with weeks of preparation.

“What a stroke of luck,” Oliver murmured, putting his mask back on.

He sent a couple of his men to tail the captain, just in case the man didn’t want to stay out of the power struggle as fully as he’d proclaimed.

Just a couple minutes later, spark-shooting wands sent up thick showers of bright green and yellow sparks from high points all around the city. They were clearly visible against the dark night sky, and the Verdant Stag and Nightmare Pack launched their simultaneous, joint attack on a dozen-plus locations and high-value targets at once.

As Oliver and his men closed in on the Morrows’ building, everyone pulled out the battle potions that had been prepared. They only had a few protective bark-skin potions, so the enforcers who would be in the vanguard, and thus mostly likely to take spell-fire, had been assigned those. Everyone had a potion of diviner’s sight in their utility belts, specifically created by another alchemist to counteract the philtres of darkness that Siobhan had brewed for them over the last few months. They also had one-use mask artifacts that would protect against Siobhan’s philtres of stench, which had already proven their effectiveness.

A trio of overpowered concussive blast spells broke open the reinforced doorway, and the men beside it tossed in the philtres of darkness. Clouds of black, light-devouring particles exploded within as soon as the delicate vials shattered, accompanied by surprised, confused cries of alarm from those within.

Distant sounds of impact and screams from the left side of the warehouse told him the same was being done there.

The philtres of darkness were followed by philtres of stench, and the cries from within changed tone to include horror and disgust.

Satisfied that the enemy was mostly neutralized, Oliver gave the signal to enter, but before the vanguard could do so, a shimmering barrier popped to life over the doorway and shuttered windows.

Someone within had activated a building-wide ward.

Oliver raised his wand and tried a concussive blast. The ward rippled from the force, but held. He switched quickly through all the spells in his battle wand, but none penetrated. It made sense, as most wards were created to block at least the most common assault spells. Remembering Siobhan’s workaround for that, he tried to toss another vial of darkness in. It shattered against the ward, spilling a huge cloud of darkness out around the door and covering their group.

He could still see through the magical darkness, though things were greyscale and a little distorted under the effects of the diviner’s sight potion. It might have actually been a good thing, as it concealed them further from any enemies.

He picked up a rock off the street and tried that next. No luck.

He stepped closer and touched his pinky finger to the barrier, which was rippling and shimmering under similar attacks by the rest of the Verdant Stag soldiers. The ward didn’t repulse him, or dissolve his flesh, or anything truly nasty, but it didn’t let the finger through, either.

That was alright. They hadn’t come unprepared. Stronger, comprehensive-purpose wards could either be broken by an exact counter-spell or overpowered through brute force.

His people knew this, and had already started to barrage the ward with battle spells, hoping to bring it down through overwhelming power. That was wasteful—he’d paid for every charge of spells put into their battle wands—and who knew how long it would take?

“Stop!” he called. “Bring out the augers! One on each wall!”

One of the support team members rushed forward with the device. The auger was a drill artifact that he’d had imported from his home country, Osham. The drill itself was physical, a spiraling, razor-sharp piece of hardened metal, but its movement was powered with magical energy. This allowed more power and greater efficiency than a purely magical drilling spell. Osham used the drilling artifacts for mining and other difficult excavation, but he was sure they could be utilized in non-traditional ways as well.

The enforcers used a liquid stone potion to anchor the augers to the ground, then activated them. Silently, they began drilling into the ward that surrounded the building like a skin.

The ward rippled violently around the tip of the drill, which kept pressing inexorably deeper.

The clouds of darkness within began to dissipate one minute after they had been released, leaving the Morrows able to better see and navigate. People appeared on the edges of the roof above, shooting spells , arrows, and battle potions down at the anti-Morrow alliance without hesitation.

Oliver’s people quickly poured out large, half-dome barriers of liquid stone, which hardened enough to protect small groups from the weaker offensive spells. They shot back from behind the hastily-created shields. Bright flashes with the colors of magic lit up the night, throwing ever-moving shadows about.

Oliver took out a fleetfoot potion, a wit-sharpening potion, and a bark skin potion, using all three in quick succession. Being well-supplied was one of the perks of being the leader. He flitted around, shooting spells at those above with much greater accuracy and avoiding their return attacks. He blasted one Morrow back, sliced deep into the chest of another, and tripped yet another as he was trying to escape.

That man fell off the edge of the roof, slamming into the ground below with a meaty crunch.

The Morrows had known something was coming, and this warehouse, where they brought most of the newly-smuggled stock before redistributing it, had been well-protected.

But there were still more of the alliance members than there were Morrows, especially after the philtres of stench had done their job on those unlucky enough to be in the main warehouse area.

A few of his men made it to nearby rooftops, setting up liquid stone battlements to shoot out between and negating the height advantage of those on top of the Morrow warehouse.

All the while, the augers drilled away, unperturbed.

Under such strain from multiple points, the ward dropped in only a couple minutes, which seemed much longer than it really was. That was a fifth of the time even the most competent ward-breakers would have needed to bring down such a powerful barrier, and had required maybe a twentieth of the magical power that overwhelming the ward with spells would have taken.

Osham had its own problems, to be sure, but they didn’t stymie non-magical advancements for fear of disrupting the established industries. In Lenore, the results of so much industry being controlled by only thirteen powerful families became obvious. Many of them were impeding the advancements that could come from a freer market due to either complacency or fear of diluting their own power, and it wasn’t just hurting the lower classes, it was weakening the nation.

As soon as the ward dropped, the alliance members threw in new philtres of darkness, but some quick-thinking Morrows within managed to cover and stifle them before the light-absorbing clouds could fully expand, leaving only a dark grey haze over a good portion of the warehouse.

Oliver gritted his teeth and cursed, but there was nothing to be done about it. Delaying further would only put them in a worse position. The vanguard had been prepped for this, and the head of his enforcers didn’t even need Oliver’s command to enter.

Mr. Huntley had a shielding artifact of his own, which he, as the point man, held up in front of the door to shield others entering behind him, but it could only absorb a couple spells before failing.

Oliver slipped in, moving quickly to circle around the edge of the room with the others. It smelled fishy inside, as if new seafood had been layered over old, crusty and sometimes putrid remains, and there were still half-processed fish and sea creatures strewn about the tables and floor within.

The enforcers attacking from the left side of the building were entering, too, but they had the cover of darkness.

Huntley absorbed a fireball, a stunning spell, and then a maliciously shaped spell that might have been a hemorrhaging curse. The foggy concussive blast spell that finally overpowered the artifact slammed Huntley into the side of the doorframe behind him. He bounced off and fell to the ground, clutching at his ribs.

One of the others dragged Huntley out, shoved a lung-sealing philtre down his throat just in case the broken ribs had punctured them, then sealed him in a quick layer of liquid stone to prevent him shifting around and causing further damage as they retreated with him toward the nearest medic station.

Oliver narrowly dodged a glowing piercing spell that gouged a deep wedge out of the stone wall behind him, then hopped over a puke-green spell that he didn’t recognize. He almost slipped on a slimy octopus tendril, and would have fallen painfully if not for the fleetfoot potion. His eyes flitted about the large room, searching for dangers and the most important targets.

Toward the end of the room nearest him, farthest from both entrances, was the door to the other half of the warehouse. A tall, hefty man was crawling toward it, eyes and nose streaming with tears and snot, and vomit splattered down the front of his flashy red suit. Another large man in much less ostentatious clothing was trying to support him with one arm while waving around a battle wand in the other.

Oliver smirked. “Well, hello, Lord Morrow,” he murmured, his voice too low to be heard over the sounds of battle. He shot a stunning spell toward the duo.

The man with the wand, probably one of Lord Morrow’s personal guards or a high-ranking member of the gang, adroitly switched his wand’s output to a half-dome shield that sprung from the tip of the wand just in time to block Oliver’s sizzling red attack.

He shot back a concussive blast spell, but his aim was high.

Oliver lunged forward, throwing himself onto his hands and knees as the spell passed overhead, then springing back up to sprint toward them. The spell whumped into the wall behind him, shattering stone and blasting out shards that hit Oliver in the back, but not hard enough to injure him.

He was too close to completely avoid the next blast, and it caught him in the arm with enough force to spin his entire body around. He didn’t resist, switching the output on his wand as he went through a full spin. He pointed the wand at Lord Morrow and his bodyguard as steadily as he could, time seeming to slow under the combined effects of the wit-sharpening potion and adrenaline. He stumbled to right himself, hunching down to brace as the third concussive blast exited the bodyguard’s wand.

He couldn’t dodge the next expanding, foggy blast, but he kept his wand up, activating the personal shield at the last possible moment.

The concussive blast threw him off his feet and wrenched his shoulder, but rather than the spell simply being absorbed by his shield spell, it bounced back at the enemy duo.

They weren’t prepared for that, and it caught them straight-on, slightly weakened but still more than enough to knock both of them off their feet.

He switched back to the stunning spell setting on his wand before they could get up or defend themselves, then shot both of them. Twice. Not to be vindictive, just to be sure.

Oliver quickly took the bodyguard’s battle wand, but as he was searching Lord Morrow for hidden artifacts or weapons that could be a problem when he woke, the hefty man jerked forward.

Oliver snapped back, barely fast enough to escape the crushing headbutt that Lord Morrow had tried to give his face.

Eyes wide beneath the mask, he punched Lord Morrow in the face before even taking the time to analyze the situation.

One of Oliver’s rings released a bright red pulse upon impact, and Lord Morrow fell back again, his eyebrows sizzling.

Oliver looked appreciatively at the ring artifact that held a pressure-triggered stunning spell. He was so distracted that he almost didn’t dodge the slicing spell that came from the side. He took out the Morrow that had sent it with an idle returned stunning spell, then looked back to the gang leader in front of him warily. Oliver was not a small man, but Lord Morrow was built like a bear, broad and with a layer of winter fat covering his muscles.

Oliver nudged the man with his foot.

No response.

He stomped down on the man’s knee.

That caused a frown, but Lord Morrow didn’t seem to wake or try to get away from the pain. The stunning spell didn’t put its victim into a coma or keep them from feeling, so a little response was normal under extreme stimulus, just like one might have when experiencing a nightmare.

Keeping his wand pointed toward the man’s neck just in case, Oliver crouched over him again, his freehand rifling through Lord Morrow’s clothes. He found the cause of the bearish man’s resilience soon enough.

Lord Morrow’s leather-lined jacket was a warding artifact. It must have absorbed the first two stunning spells that hit his body. He had only pretended to be unconscious to take Oliver by surprise.

Moving as quickly as he could while still being wary of the men before him, and the fighting around him, which was quickly dying down as the alliance gained control of the room, Oliver stripped Lord Morrow all the way down to his underpants, inspecting even them to make sure no more nasty surprises were lurking.

They had won.

This was one of the most important targets, but hopefully, the distant sounds of fighting throughout the city told a similar tale for the others.

In a single night, the Verdant Stags would go from a small, insignificant organization to controlling one of the largest sections of territory within Gilbratha.

He wasn’t averse to the trappings of power and wealth, and the life that afforded, but it wasn’t his main goal. He felt happy just imagining all the good he could do. That particular feeling of satisfaction was hard to get anywhere else.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note: I'm working on reviewing all the line edits back from my editor, and I need some time to get through them all before posting the next chapter. Therefore, there will be no chapter on 11/11. I hope to post a double chapter during Book 2's release week to make up for it.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-76-healing/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

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Chapter 76 - Healing

Siobhan

Month 1, Day 17, Sunday 9:00 p.m.

As was becoming routine to her, Sebastien went first to the Silk Door, where she took up the name Siobhan along with her real body. This time, she rebleached the front section of her hair, using the color-change spell rather than an alchemical concoction, and tied it in a severe bun. Noticing that the rest of her hair wasn’t just dark, but actually an iridescent blue-black, she fixed that, too. ‘Another difference between Siobhan Naught and the Raven Queen. Or rather, between Silvia Nakai and the Raven Queen.’ She again wore the fake horn-rimmed glasses Katerin had gotten for her when she was doing the street-corner flag wards throughout the Verdant Stag’s territory. She didn’t wear the red lip cream. Being Sebastien was out of the question for this, but hopefully, she could just be Silvia, a nondescript healer’s assistant, not the Raven Queen.

Once upon a time, her name had felt like something intrinsic, a thing that held meaning when describing her basic identity. If someone asked her who she was, she would have answered, “Siobhan Naught,” without hesitation, and meant it. It was a label that encompassed all that she was. Now, if someone asked her that same question, she would have had to check what skin she was wearing and what role she was playing before answering. The only thing left of her was her insides—her mind and her magic—and of course no human remained unchanged over time. All living, growing beings were in a constant state of slow metamorphosis. ‘There will come a time when I am different. But, I hope, never a time that I no longer recognize myself.’

She took a roundabout path to the address Oliver had given her. She slipped through the back door, which had been left unlocked, into the back room of a shop, where the normal supplies had all been moved to one side of the room. The shelves were stocked instead with potions, bandages, and a few basic medical artifacts. Two large, square operating tables sat within, and one wall was lined with cots.

The room was empty. Something about being alone in a strange place, in the dark, made her feel like she was being watched from the shadows.

“Hello?” she called, her voice weak enough that it wouldn’t travel very far.

No one responded.

‘The healer must not be here yet.’ She closed the door behind her, found a light crystal, and began to set up, organizing her own potions and familiarizing herself with the prepared supplies. The operating tables both had a large Circle engraved on their smooth surfaces. One had a pentagram and pentagon within the middle, and the other a hexagram and hexagon. With those four options, the tables should be enough to cover almost all of the basic healing spells.

The minutes stretched on, and Siobhan found herself pacing back and forth in an attempt to release some of the nervous energy building up inside her.

When the distant sounds of fighting reached her, the healer still hadn’t arrived.

A few minutes into it, when she was wound so tight she felt like a string that might snap, frantic pounding on the door made her jump.

There were no back windows, so she had to open the door to see who it was.

As soon as she did so, two men pushed past her, one supporting the other.

The injured man was badly burned. The skin across his head, neck, and one arm was already bubbling up, and he smelled uncomfortably like burnt hair mixed with roasted pork.

“You’re the healer, right?” the uninjured man asked, puffing from the strain of supporting his almost insensate teammate.

Siobhan shook her head. “No. I—”

Behind them, a woman followed, her battle wand out and her eyes scanning the street for danger. “Is this the wrong place?” she asked demandingly. “We were promised there would be a healer here.”

“It’s the right place,” Siobhan said. “But the healer hasn’t arrived. I—”

The burned man sobbed pitifully. His face was badly blistered, one eyelid melted into the surrounding skin, and his ear on that side mostly burned away.

Siobhan swallowed past the nauseating smell and pushed her shoulders back. “Get him onto the table,” she ordered, pointing to the one with the pentagon and pentagram. She couldn’t cast any of the real healing spells that required a hexagram, anyway. She strode over to the shelf of potions. “I’m not the healer, I’m an assistant. I can’t do everything, but I can help.”

The man and woman worked together to heave the burned man onto one of the tables, which only drew out more pained sounds from him. “Fritz,” he mumbled.

The man grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “I’m here, buddy. I’ve got you.”

Siobhan tied on a full-body apron and returned with a potion and a jar of salve.

She uncorked the potion and fed it slowly into the good side of the burned man’s mouth. “This will help with the pain,” she told him. “You’re going to be okay, I promise.”

He swallowed obediently, shivering slightly from what was likely shock.

She followed that up with one of her newly brewed regeneration-boosting potions, letting him drink it rather than trying to pour it evenly over the huge swath of damaged flesh. This way, he could heal from the inside out.

“Turn him to lie on his good side. Someone hand me a pair of scissors and a pair of tweezers.” She fished the chalk out of her pocket and walked around the table writing glyphs. Her secret Conduit was inside the lip of her boot creating a painful indentation in her calf, but she couldn’t show it, so she pulled out the one loaned to her by Professor Lacer. It wasn’t likely to be recognized, and there was no way to track its use. She cast a simple, improvised spell to slowly draw some of the heat from the man’s burns, which would keep him from continuing to slowly cook.

The high strength pain-relieving potion kicked in as she worked, and the man let out a long breath of relief, tension easing from his body. His breathing deepened as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Fritz returned with the tools she’d requested, which Siobhan used to cut and pluck away her patient’s clothes from his burned skin. “What caused his injuries?” she asked.

“Fireball spell,” the woman replied succinctly.

Siobhan nodded. “Any coughing or liquid in his lungs?”

“No.”

‘Probably no internal burns, then.’ “Did the fireball blow him away? Did he smash into anything?”

“No. It wasn’t concussion-modified,” the woman said. “Just heat.”

“That’s good. He’ll have scarring if he can’t afford to pay for the strongest healing spells, but he’ll live as long as I can keep his skin on his body.”

Fritz swallowed audibly. “How likely is it that you can’t? Keep his…skin on his body, that is.”

Siobhan scowled down at the sweeping burns. She couldn’t get all of the cloth and ash out of the wounds, but figured that was a job for someone more skilled, anyway. As long as he didn’t die right away, she’d done her job. “I don’t know. If the healer ever arrives, I’d say it’s quite likely he’ll come out of this with some scarring. If not, I’ll at least be able to keep him alive through the night. For the rest…” She shrugged, perusing the wound-cleansing potions on the shelf for a brew mild enough not to tear away the burned skin.

She found a bottle and poured it liberally over the unconscious man.

“Do you have any idea where the healer might be?” Fritz asked. “It’s just… It looks like you’re all alone here. Our orders were to drop off any wounded and get back to the battle, but maybe we should stay. You might need protection.”

Peering at the pieces of dirt, ash, and cloth that were flushed out by the gentle bubbling of the potion, she said, “You can stay for now. I might need an extra pair of hands or two when we get more injured. One of you should guard the door in the meantime.”

Siobhan had cleaned her hands while waiting for the healer arrive, but rinsed them again in a basin of strong alcohol she’d poured in the corner. All the healing books she’d read had been rabidly paranoid about the possibility of infection, which often could not be treated without true healing potions or spells, and were a leading cause of delayed death. Infection had long been thought to be caused by bad humors, but according to Professor Gnorrish and the latest medical books, it was actually caused by tiny animal-like creatures too small to see with the naked eye, which would breed within a person like maggots in a piece of meat. Bacteria. Alcohol killed them.

Assured that she wouldn’t be infecting the man with her touch, she dipped her finger into the fresh jar of burn salve and began to gently daub the gooey substance over his burned skin. She’d only covered a couple inches when shouting from down the street drew her attention.

The woman’s battle wand was in her hand as she peered out the door, but whatever she saw made her relax slightly. “Allies, carrying injured!”

Siobhan took a quick glance outside, turned around, and said, “Help me move him. I’m going to need the operating table, and he isn’t in critical condition.” Being as careful as they could not to jostle his burns, they moved him to one of the cots just as the new group hurried in the door.

They brought more burns, a broken leg, and what she thought was a punctured lung from a broken rib.

Siobhan slipped into a fugue of focus, rattling off orders, questions, and prioritizing the injuries as well as she knew how.

The punctured lung was the worst, but other than her blood magic flesh-mirroring spell, she didn’t actually have any way to fix it. She gave the injured fighter a whiff of a strong anti-coughing philtre, then cast a modified version of a simple sinus-clearing spell on him. “Do. Not. Cough,” she warned.

The spell drew up globs of blood and phlegm, which spilled out of his mouth in a horrific, lumpy mess into the bowl she had waiting. The man tensed, holding his breath in an attempt not to hack at the disturbance to his lungs.

She held up the anti-coughing philtre again, letting him get another soothing breath. “Breathe shallowly.” She gave him a blood-replenishing potion next. “Does anyone have a lung-sealing philtre?” she called. She had bought some for the Verdant Stag at the secret thaumaturge meeting, but there were none stocked on the shelves.

“I do!” a man belatedly volunteered, fumbling it from the half-stocked utility belt around his waist. He almost dropped it, but they managed to get it to the patient thanks to Siobhan’s quick reflexes.

The man took as deep a breath as he could, and the philtre did its job, coating the inside of his lungs with a seal that would add pressure to the wound and help to keep him from drowning to death in his own blood.

Siobhan sent him to one of the cots in the corner. “You’re still bleeding. We’re waiting on the healer. If you feel your lung start to fill up again, ring the bell and I’ll come clear it out for you. No talking, no coughing, slow breaths,” she ordered, shoving a cheap brass bell she’d pulled from one of the shelves into his hand.

‘At least we’re well-stocked,’ she consoled herself.

Everyone with burns piled their affected parts or their whole bodies onto the table and she drew the heat out of the burned flesh, then removed any large pieces of debris or cloth from the wounds, repeating the same process as the first time. Those who were the worst off got enough pain-relieving potion to knock them unconscious.

She made Fritz rub down with alcohol, then put him on burn salve duty. “It’s too simple to screw up. Dab, don’t rub. Be generous with the salve, we have plenty. Clean your hands thoroughly between each patient.”

She turned her attention to the man with a broken leg. The leg wasn’t exactly mangled, but a jagged edge of bone was jutting out of his shin, and the limb was bent unnaturally at the break. Judging by the pallor of his foot and the rotten grape-purple bruising all around the wound, she doubted blood was flowing properly past it. ‘He’s going to lose that foot if I don’t do something. Maybe I could knock him unconscious with a pain-reliever, take him into the main room of the shop and send the others away, and see if I can at least get the bone in place and the blood vessels reconnected with the flesh-mirroring spell? These people might be suspicious of the secrecy, but they’re not healers. I could make up a plausible excuse…’

She was contemplating the wound while the pale-faced patient stared at her.

“Can you fix it?” he asked.

“Of course I can!” a man barked from behind her.

She turned to see Healer Nidson, the same man Oliver had taken her to when she got Will-strain.

Nidson was guarded by three men with wands. His white shirt was splattered with blood, his hands, knees, and shoes covered in what looked like a mixture of mud and blood.

Siobhan almost collapsed with relief. “Thank the stars above,” she muttered.

Nidson looked around with a critical eye, then turned his gimlet stare on Siobhan. “You’ll brief me while assisting. Go get the wound cleanser! Strength five. And I need a sink and some alcohol. Find me a clean apron. And be quick about it!”

Siobhan pointed him to the wash basin in the corner, gave him a fresh bottle of alcohol, then scurried around to retrieve the rest of what he’d requested, explaining the injuries she’d assessed and what she’d done to treat them as she went.

He was ready and up to date a few minutes later, just as another wave of injured people arrived.

There were people from the Stags and the Nightmare Pack, but also unconscious men wearing the red of the Morrows, and even a few civilians. The wounds were worse.

“Morrows were prepared,” one of the men gasped. “Half of them had overpowered blast wands. Took down the side of a building on us. Civilians got caught up in it. We grabbed who we could. There are more there, some dead. There’ll be—” He stopped to cough violently, then croaked, “There’s more wounded on the way, as soon as they can get here on their own or we can fetch them.”

Nidson initiated a quick diagnosis of that man using an artifact that sent out a pulse of light and sound, and then read its dials and knobs for the result. “No obvious internal bleeding. You’re good to go.”

The latest batch of people were wounded in ways that were beyond Siobhan’s ability to help directly. She could deal with cleaning wounds of the pieces of wood and stone that had been embedded in flesh by the concussive blasts, and she knew enough to give the proper basic potions. But she couldn’t do anything about caved-in abdomens, shattered skulls and pelvises, broken spines, disrupted internal organs, or internal bleeding…not even simple concussions. For those, she gave pain potions, blood-replenishers, and revivifying potions, just trying to keep them all alive long enough for the healer to see to them.

It was honestly amazing to watch Nidson in action. He had been brusque before, but seemed quietly competent. Now he was like a snappish, efficient whirlwind. He used telekinetic spells to move bones and flesh into the proper position, tossed around minor healing potions like they were water, and even broke out some components from the Plane of Radiance to cast specialized healing spells on the particularly grievous wounds.

He bossed her—and anyone else who stood nearby for a little too long—around with rapid-fire instructions, sending uninjured men back out into the fight. Their cots quickly filled up, and anyone who was conscious or stable enough to move was relocated to the main part of the shop and laid out on the ground.

In this way, they worked through the wounded even as more poured in.

Some died, or were already dead when they arrived, carried by people who were exhausted and often injured themselves.

Siobhan realized that she had been wrong to think that normal healing potions were inefficiently expensive. Being general purpose and simplistic was their greatest strength. She could dose people on the edge of death with one general healing potion instead of a series of different specific potions and spells, providing what they needed much faster. She could use a healing potion without taking the time to diagnose the injury as thoroughly, leaving specific problems until later. Some of those being brought in had already taken one of the mild healing potions the enforcers had been supplied with, and in some cases it had saved their lives. Even civilians with no medical training and no skill in magic, with their eyes blurry with blood and their hands shaking, could use one.

Siobhan had also never considered that someone could be so severely injured that they might literally not have enough room in their stomachs for all the specific-purpose potions they would have otherwise needed.

There was a fire spreading from one of the battle sites, caused by carless use of a fireball spell. They were getting more civilians with burns or smoke inhalation, so many that Siobhan worried the previously excessive stock of burn salve would actually run out.

It was worse than Siobhan had expected. Not worse than she could have imagined, but it still rattled something deep within her. The darkest moment came when a grandmother with a mangled stump for a hand begged her to save her grandson, whose legs had both been blown off. The woman had tied the stumps with strips of her own clothing, using just her good hand and her teeth, then ran the whole way to them with the boy on her back, following directions from the Nightmare Pack members who had been fighting in the street around her.

Siobhan thought the boy was dead, to look at him, but Nidson pronounced his heart to be still beating. “He’s lost too much blood, though. I don’t have any of the more powerful healing potions left, and anything else will take too long.”

“Humphries’ adapting solution!” Siobhan cried, lunging over to the shelf where she’d placed the large bottles earlier that evening. She shoved two into his hands.

“Are these still fresh?” he asked.

“I brewed them myself just yesterday,” she assured him.

Nidson wasted no time placing the boy on the operating table. Using a fountain pen with a thick ink, he drew out the modified piercing spell, centering it precisely over his pale arm. He used a tiny needle to barely prick the skin at the center of the array, then pressed the wax-covered mouth of the bottle over it and began to cast, forcing the liquid directly into the boy’s bloodstream.

Five minutes later, three liters of liquid had been transfused into the boy’s body with minimal waste, and he was breathing normally. His color hadn’t recovered from the deathly pallor, but that was because the adapting solution wasn’t red like blood.

Nidson moved on to boy’s leg stumps, but Siobhan took an extra moment to look at the unconscious child’s face. ‘He’s alive because of me. I did better, this time.’

Nidson was almost finished sealing the boy’s stumps when the guard at the doorway screamed in alarm, shooting a spell from her wand before leaping out of the way.

Half a second later, the doorway exploded.

The open door was blown off its hinges, and the blast edges caught those closest, tossing them off their feet and peppering them with shattered pieces of brick and shards of wood.

Siobhan reacted in time to cover her face with her arms, flinching back from the blast and shrapnel. She was far enough away that it only rocked her back on her heels and left her with a handful of bruises where she’d been hit.

Nidson had reacted even faster than her, pulling the boy off the table onto the floor and shielding him with his own body.

A mixed group of Nightmare Pack and Verdant Stag fighters had been by the door. Some of them had moved in time. Those who hadn’t were lying on the floor, injured or unconscious. The concussive blast spell had been a little off-center, impacting more against the side of the building than directly through the doorway, which had probably saved their lives.

Siobhan’s ears were ringing from the pressure of the shockwave, and people were screaming in fear and pain, but she still heard the female guard who’d gotten off a return shot shout, “Morrows!”

‘They must have followed some of our own people,’ Siobhan thought. “Get away from the doorway!” she screamed. “If anyone has a shield, raise it now!”

People were crawling or being dragged away. The female guard stepped past them, falling to one knee in the doorway with her fists, wrapped by knuckle guards, held in front of her.

Another concussive blast hit, this one more on target, but a circular shield flared out from the woman’s fists, wider than the doorway and almost as tall, blocking the blast and allowing the injured to make it farther into the safety of the room. The woman let out a grunt past gritted teeth from the strain of the impact as she absorbed a second attack, this one a fireball that spilled around the edge of the shield, licking at the ceiling and the walls and singing the woman’s skin.

“Give back our men!” screamed one of the Morrows from the street. “I want Andrews and Jacob or I’m going to collapse that building on top of you!”

Siobhan grabbed one of the stone operating tables by its leg and heaved it toward the doorway. “Step back!” she screamed at the guard.

The woman shuffled out of the way, her fists still raised with the faintly glowing shield.


From the corner of her eye, Siobhan saw one of their attackers release another spell. With a heave, she tipped the table over in front of the doorway and fell to the ground behind it, knees to her chest and her arms around her head.

The table cracked with the impact of the attacking spell, another concussive blast, but didn’t shatter completely.

The woman was kneeling over Siobhan, her fists still raised. She’d reinforced the table with her shield artifact, keeping it from breaking, but the table also protected her from the brunt of the blow.

Siobhan crawled to her feet. ‘We’re trapped in here, like rats in a box.’ She popped her head up above the edge of the table for less than a second, taking in the attackers scattered around both sides of the street, some peeking out behind doorways or the corners of alleys. She scrambled for her bag.

Some of the civilian patients were running into the front of the shop, hoping to escape out the main door, but many more were unconscious or not stable enough to move.

Some of the enforcers still well enough to fight headed that way, too, and Siobhan hoped they were going to circle around and attack the Morrows from the side or behind, not simply escape. She hoped, but she couldn’t depend on them. She’d run scenarios like this through her mind several times since Oliver asked her to help with this operation.

‘Do I have any effective long-range attacks except for the makeshift slingshot spell I used against the Morrows last time?’ The problem was, the Morrows were scattered, not grouped together under a single shield spell, and if she moved to the doorway to attack them, they were much more likely to hit her than she was to hit them. The barrier of the operation table would only hold for so long. It would be suicide.

She could slip out the front of the shop, circle around, and try to surprise them, but it still left the problem of being one against many, with them scattered about and difficult to hit.

No, she needed an attack that could cover a wide area all at once.

And she had prepared just the thing.

She carried her bag back to the doorway, fishing out a philtre of stench. There wasn’t enough wind to push the debilitating cloud toward their attackers, but she had a solution for that problem too.

She selected one of her paper utility spells.

The table, reinforced by the woman’s knuckle-guard shield, which was beginning to falter, took another hit. An arrow from a forearm-mounted crossbow shot through the doorway, but the shooter had terrible aim and it embedded itself harmlessly in the back wall.

Three other fighters were now helping the female enforcer, ducking down to shelter from attacks and then popping up to send out return fire. It seemed to be helping, reducing the rate at which the Morrows could sling spells at them.

The building around the doorway had taken several more blows as the Morrows’ aim deteriorated under the pressure. None of the Morrows seemed eager to come closer and make themselves a more obvious target.

Siobhan threw the alchemical bottle into the street, where it shattered. The stench expanded outward in a vaguely visible, sick-looking cloud.

As quickly as possible, she ducked back down and placed the paper spell array for her gust spell against the inner side of the table, using a bit of moderate-strength glue to paste it on. The Circle bound a spherical area under her command, which in this case meant that she also controlled a section of air on the other side of the table’s surface. The side facing the street.

She realized belatedly that she needed a power source, and as she turned to look for one, the healer said, “Here!” and tossed her the beast core he’d been using to perform healing spells.

Siobhan wasted no time extracting energy from it. It was her first time channeling power from a beast core, and she was exhilarated by the deep well of potential she could feel within such a small container. It was like holding a miniature sun, or a bolt of lightning, or all the crushing power of the world’s largest waterfall.

She only needed a fraction of that power, and she used it to create wind. The Circle for this spell was small enough that she was able to create some real force from the gust.

The philtre of stench blew down the street, and though some of the Morrows had been smart enough to pull up their scarves or cover their face with an elbow, it wasn’t enough to save them. The particles were small, easily filtering through cloth, and no one had thought to cover their eyes.

The philtre was more than just stench. It was also an irritant to any of the more delicate mucous membranes and a minor emetic.

Siobhan adjusted the angle of the breeze several times on the fly, using only her Will to change the spell’s output in this simple way. She kept her head below the edge of the table for the most part, only popping up occasionally to readjust her aim.

The Morrows were dropping. Some vomited violently in the street. Some were blinded by their streaming eyes and hacking out mucus. Some decided that attacking the emergency healing center wasn’t worth it after all and ran away.

The shielding artifact the female enforcer had been using gave out, and a spell sent some chips of broken table flying at Siobhan’s face. Thankfully, her fake glasses protected her eyes.

Some of the enforcers who had escaped out the front of the shop did indeed circle around, taking shots at the escaping Morrows.

Siobhan tried to be careful not to send the magical stench at her allies, but it was hard to control, and they couldn’t get too close without being affected.

The philtre ran out after a few minutes, letting off only a trickle of fumes rather than a billowing cloud, and Siobhan released her gust spell.

“Guard the doorway,” she said to the fighters still inside. She went to the wash basin in the corner, wetted some bandages, and then tied them around her face, covering her mouth and nose like some kind of partial mummy.

One of the unconscious patients on the cots had a battle wand lying next to him. Siobhan took it.

The overturned operating table was mostly broken by that point, so it was easy to drag one side of it out of the way.

Siobhan stood in the doorway for a minute, clearly visible and ready to dodge aside, channeling every bit of reflex that Professor Fekten had managed to drill into her body.

No one attacked her.

Still ready to drop to the ground or lunge out of the way at a moment’s notice, Siobhan stepped into the street. The lingering stench was horrible, forcing her to choke down a gag. She’d never been particularly squeamish, but there was a reason part of the process of brewing this potion required a protective barrier around the mouth of the cauldron.

Quickly and methodically, she stunned every Morrow she could see until the wand ran out of charges. A few more tried to escape, but the enforcers from the Nightmare Pack and the Verdant Stag that had circled around stopped them.

She grabbed hold of the closest unconscious Morrow and dragged him toward the makeshift infirmary. Her allies picked up on the idea quickly, and helped her haul the others in. Oliver wanted hostages, after all.

Inside, Healer Nidson was already on his feet and working again, using the second table.

Waving to the enforcers to follow her, she dragged her prisoner into the main part of the shop, dropped him, and used a spell to remove any extra liquid from his mouth, throat, and lungs. ‘I don’t want any of them to die from choking on their own vomit.’ She repeated the process on their other new prisoners, then quickly checked to make sure none of them had potentially fatal wounds.

Her fingers were trembling around her Conduit, and the room swayed a bit when she stood. One of the Nightmare Pack enforcers, a man with two curling goat horns springing out of a mop of tangled hair, caught her elbow.

Siobhan nodded her thanks to him, clumsily pulling the damp bandages away from her face and wiping her streaming eyes. “Check them for weapons, then tie them up securely. Re-stun them if you have to. We can’t afford to waste pain-relieving potions keeping them unconscious.”

She returned to the back room, blinking away tears and suppressing the urge to cough. She felt like she’d rubbed her eyeballs and throat with a slice of onion. Staring around at the wounded lying on cots, and on the floor, those still waiting for treatment, and those already dead, she felt a buzzing sense of detachment for a moment. ‘This can’t be what Oliver had planned, can it? Something must have gone wrong. Is it even safe for us to stay in Morrow territory? What if they win the fight and come to kill us all?’ She pressed her hand to her chest, where her heart was beating too hard. She hadn’t thought she was afraid, but the burning in her veins and the lifting of the hair on the back of her neck was undeniable.

She looked around wildly, sure that something dangerous was in the room with her.

“Girl, are you listening?” Nidson barked.

Siobhan jerked back to awareness, turning to him belatedly as the irrational fear receded.

He fished in the pocket of his jacket under his now-filthy apron and tossed her a small bottle. “Take that and get back to work. I need three lung-sealing philtres and some liquid stone.” He turned to point at a group of patients. “When you’ve done that, dose those three with a regeneration-booster, and him with a mild healing potion. I’m worried about cot number three, he didn’t move when the first blast went off. Check his heartbeat and his eyes for dilation. And I need my beast core back.”

The healer continued to rattle off instructions, and one part of Siobhan’s brain catalogued them while the other focused on the vial he’d prescribed her. The scribbled label on the side named it a wit-sharpening potion.

Wit-sharpening potion did not in fact make you any smarter, but it could make you temporarily more aware and improve performance in situations that required multitasking, as long as you didn’t take too high a dose and become overwhelmed by sensory input. It was also addictive.

She took the single swallow remaining in the vial and tossed the empty bottle in the box where all the other empty jars, bottles, and vials were piling up. Almost immediately, she felt her focus tighten, her brain organizing the steps she needed to take to complete all her tasks as efficiently as possible.

‘There is no time to waste, and I won’t leave these people to die.’ She felt for the battle wand she’d taken from the captured Morrows, tucked in an inner pocket. It was filled with only stunning spells, nothing more powerful, but she was pretty sure there were a few charges left. ‘If more enemies come, we’ll fight them off, too.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-77-have-violent-ends/

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Chapter 77 - Have Violent Ends

A note from AzaleaEllis

Do you have a sharp eye for errors and an interest in reading the entirety of Book 2 now (chapters 38-89), in exchange for a $25 bookstore gift card, your own paperback copy of the book, and a signed bookplate?

PGTS Book 2: A Binding of Blood is almost ready for publication. It's been professionally edited, but it takes more than a couple sets of eyes to catch all the errors in a work. I'm looking for readers with a sharp eye to suss out any remaining typos and other small, insidious errors.

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Oliver

Month 1, Day 17, Sunday 9:30 p.m.

The door to the back room of the warehouse was locked and thoroughly reinforced, enough so that a few concussive blast spells did barely any damage.

While one of the others handled the bodyguard, Oliver dragged Lord Morrow onto a chair, tied both his arms and legs to it, then used a rope passed underneath the chair to tie his arms and legs together as well.

The Morrows that had been on the roof were brought down. All those who were severely injured were restrained, stunned unconscious, and given basic first aid before a team took them off to the closest medic station. Meanwhile, the rest remained, unconscious, tied up, and waiting to be taken to the holding cells. Cells that Oliver had paid an exorbitant amount to have set up on short notice.

The alliance’s contracted wardbreaker came in when they were sure the front half of the warehouse was clear, going to work on the door to the back room. They could have used the augers again, but were worried about setting off traps. Also, since this warehouse would soon belong to Oliver, he didn’t want to damage his future property any more than necessary.

The wardbreaker took a few minutes to examine the door while the others looked through the boxes of goods stacked around the warehouse. At first glance, this location appeared to be legitimately used to process seafood caught in the Charybdis Gulf. But some of that seafood was used as a cover for other, less conventional deliveries. They found packets of illegal components tucked into the stomachs of several creatures, and piles of restricted components covered with thick layers of unpleasant things like stinking sea slugs or thorny sea urchins. The Morrow workers had been in the middle of processing the incoming shipment when the attack began, but it seemed like the most valuable things were missing.

There were no artifacts, no celerium, no components from the Elemental Planes.

The wardbreaker called out to get Oliver’s attention. “This is exceptionally well-done. It might take me an hour or two. If you’re in a hurry, you can try to overwhelm the ward instead, but that will come out a lot more expensive for you in the end.”

“So that’s where you were keeping all the interesting things,” Oliver murmured, looking down at Lord Morrow���s pale, unconscious body. “Keep working on cracking it,” he said more loudly. “We’ll see what I can get from him.” From his utility belt, he took out a small paper packet of magically enhanced smelling salts that had been “repurposed” by one of the coppers on the Verdant Stag payroll.

They were torturously strong—literally—and woke Lord Morrow up immediately. The man flinched back, wide eyes rolling around like a stuck pig as he took in his current situation. “You’ll never get away with this!” he bellowed hoarsely. “We will raze you and your people from the face of the earth for this insult! And don’t think you Nightmare Pack degenerates will be able to squirm your way out of it, either,” he yelled, catching sight of a man with curling horns and a tail.

The Terror just smiled at him mockingly.

Red-faced, Lord Morrow—who was not a real lord by birth, only by affectation as the leader of an organization large enough to afford him the title—turned back to Oliver. “You.”

“Me,” Oliver agreed, staring down at the man through the eye holes in his mask. With the artificial darkness behind those eye holes, Lord Morrow would know nothing of Oliver’s expression, but his satisfaction was clear in his voice. It only made Lord Morrow’s face flush redder.

Oliver hadn’t woken him to waste time monologuing. “I have some questions for you. Whether you answer or not, you are going to die either way. But if your answers prove useful, the innocent members your family may be spared. I am not a cruel man.”

Lord Morrow spat at Oliver, but the fleetfoot potion hadn’t quite worn off yet, and Oliver dodged easily. “You don’t have my family,” he snarled, “and the only words I have for you are maledictions.”

Oliver had never believed in the power of maledictions—a curse spoken with a wronged person’s dying breath—and even if he had, Lord Morrow hadn’t lived the kind of life for this ending to be an injustice. “This world is not fair,” he said. “If you get what you deserve, it is by coincidence or expended effort. But in this case, Lord Morrow, it seems you really will be reaping the fruit of what you have sown. I do have your family. We attacked them at your home first. They put up the wards, and your guards tried to fight back. When your wife realized it was hopeless, she abandoned the guards to buy time, set the traps, and escaped with your children. They went to the safe house. The one you prepared for a day like this. The one you thought no one knew about. My men were waiting for them, but they haven’t been harmed. Much.”

Lord Morrow roared and jerked against his restraints, trying to spit at Oliver again. “I’ll kill all of you! All of you!”

A Terror lunged forward and kicked at Lord Morrow’s side, knocking the air out of his lungs.

“You won’t.” Oliver almost felt guilty about how pleasant it was to solicit such reactions from a man he so despised. “You could have avoided all this, you know. I was content to grow slowly, but you made that impossible when you started attacking my people, in my territory.”

“You think I’m stupid? You were sneaking around like a weasel behind our backs, trying to take over our source of product. Did you think we wouldn’t notice? Did you think we would let that go?”

Oliver experienced an instant of confusion before making the connection. “Really? Because I used the same smuggler you did? That’s why you attacked?” The warehouse incident had been shortly after his first meeting with Captain Eliezer, but he’d never connected the two. It made even more sense that Lord Morrow would have warned Eliezer off working with him again tonight. “But that can’t be it. You were harassing us before that.”

Lord Morrow laughed. “Those were warnings against getting too uppity. Which you failed to heed. You don’t know who you’re messing with, whelp. The Morrows have backers stronger than you could ever imagine. That bitch, the so-called Raven Queen? I’ll have her fed to the dogs!”

Oliver had no doubt the man meant the threat literally. He’d heard the stories. Though he felt a powerful urge to slap Lord Morrow across the face, he suppressed it. “The University, right?” he asked. “They are your backers. Well, not all of them. Just one faction.”

“If you think my contacts will just take up working with you once you’ve gotten rid of me, think again!” Lord Morrow said, uncertainty seeping into his voice for the first time. “You’ll never be able to hold my territory or my business.”

“Enough of this,” Oliver said, suddenly impatient. He didn’t need Lord Morrow for details about their operation and contacts. He had many captured lieutenants for that, and his enforcers were already working on waking and questioning them. He only needed Lord Morrow to save him some time getting into the warded back room. “I need the password to the back room. If you don’t give it to me within the next ten seconds, I will give the order for my men to kill your oldest son. If you still refuse, it will be your wife next. Then your younger children, descending by age.”

In truth, Oliver had no intention of killing the younger children. Lord Morrow’s oldest son had committed enough crimes that he was going to be executed anyway, and his wife was complicit in many of her own crimes. The younger members of the family would be tried for their own actions and punished accordingly, but Oliver doubted very much they deserved death.

Lord Morrow sneered. “Just because you were able to guess they escaped to a safe house means nothing. You cannot threaten me with something you do not control.”

Oliver hadn’t been sure he would need Siobhan’s group proprioception potion, but he’d kept a set of vials for himself anyway, just in case. Now, he realized, might be the perfect time to use them. “I thought you might say that,” he said. “Proof is being delivered as we speak.” He turned around and walked out of the warehouse without another word.

Outside, their people were guarding the building to make sure no Morrow backup attacked them by surprise.

Oliver handed two of the three group proprioception potions to a Terror with big yellow eyes, chosen because she was an owl skinwalker and also happened to own a watch. “Go deeper into the Morrows’ territory. North of Lord Morrow’s mansion, somewhere you won’t be seen. In exactly five minutes, break one of these potions and hit the remains with a fireball spell. Make sure it’s completely destroyed. Wait another three minutes, and do the same to the other.”

The woman looked at him strangely, but accepted the task, moving into a dark corner to transform in private.

Oliver waited four minutes, then returned to Lord Morrow. He forced the second of the three potions down the man’s throat.

Lord Morrow, probably thinking it was some kind of interrogation potion—which would actually have been quite useful to have on hand—tried to gag it up. But before he could succeed, the effects took hold, and his eyes widened. “What is this?”

“Do you feel that? It’s a simple potion that connects you to two other people. Your son, and your wife.”

“Lies.”

“You can feel them. You know it’s no lie,” Oliver bluffed. “Don’t you sense the kinship? They share your blood. And if you do not give me the password, you will share in the sensation of their death. You will feel it as they slip from this world.”

Some of the enforcers around him shared uneasy looks, probably imagining experiencing such a thing themselves, but no one tried to intervene.

Lord Morrow glared at Oliver’s serene, black-eyed mask and said nothing.

After a nonchalant look at his watch, Oliver lifted his wrist to his mouth and said, “The son. Do it.”

Nothing happened for a couple of seconds, and Lord Morrow was just beginning to smirk. His expression was aborted immediately as his whole body convulsed, his wide eyes rolling back in his head.

The woman must have destroyed the first linked potion. Oliver had not expected such a strong reaction.

Lord Morrow shook, red-faced and breathless for a moment, then let out a wailing keen.

The sound hurt Oliver’s ears, and made something inside him flinch.

The tied up man sagged forward finally, panting. “My son! What have you done? My son! I’ll kill you for this. Slowly, in the street for everyone to see.”

Oliver kept his tone neutral. “Your wife is next. The password?”

Lord Morrow glared at him, gritting his teeth for a good thirty seconds, but as soon as Oliver moved to lift his wrist to his mouth again, the fight seemed to finally go out of the big man. “It’s a two-part verbal password, and I only have one part. But it doesn’t matter!” he added quickly, seeing Oliver lift his arm again. “The ward is also keyed to my body. I can pass through with impunity. If you just take me to the door, it will open under my hand, no password required. But you must promise me the rest of my family is safe.”

“As long as you cooperate, they will be safe until they are tried for their crimes. The results of that are up to them.”

Lord Morrow agreed quickly.

Oliver’s eyes narrowed, but he still ordered two of his men to untie Lord Morrow’s arms from the chair, keeping his ankles bound to each other so he couldn’t try to run. Oliver kept a good grip on Lord Morrow’s left arm, his eyes trained on Lord Morrow’s face as the man reached for the handle.

The handle turned.

Lord Morrow threw himself forward, uncaring as he hit the door and fell forward into the room beyond, dragging Oliver with him through the ward.

The ward stayed firmly in place behind the two of them, keeping the rest of Oliver’s men from entering or coming to his aid.

Lord Morrow stared at him in surprise, looking back at the intact ward. “B-but that’s impossible!”

Oliver had fallen on the arm holding his battle wand, and before he could free it and attack, Lord Morrow rolled over onto him.

Oliver hooked his own leg around Lord Morrow’s still-tied legs and continued the roll until he was on top of the much broader man. “There are exceptions to every rule.”

Lord Morrow grabbed the wrist holding Oliver’s wand, squeezing until Oliver physically couldn’t help but drop it.

He punched Lord Morrow in the face, with the hand wearing the ring artifact, but apparently it only had a single charge remaining, and nothing happened.

Lord Morrow’s free hand scrabbled for Oliver’s face, his fingers sinking into the shadowed eyeholes of Oliver’s mask.

Oliver jerked back, and the mask ripped away from his skin.

With both of Lord Morrow’s hands temporarily occupied, Oliver reached for his utility belt, scrabbling frantically for something, anything.

Lord Morrow tossed aside Oliver’s mask, smiling ferally up at him, then reached for Oliver’s neck, just one of his hands big enough to close around it. He squeezed and lunged up to try and pin Oliver beneath him again. “There is only one sin, and it is weakness!” he snarled.

Oliver’s fingers closed over a potion vial, and without even stopping to check its contents, he brought it up and smashed it into Lord Morrow’s face.

Liquid stone spilled out, quickly overwhelming the blood spilling from both Oliver’s hand and Lord Morrow’s face where the shattered glass cut into them both.

It expanded rapidly, building up and pouring over Lord Morrow’s face. Liquid stone potion was not intended as a weapon, and contact with living flesh purposefully inhibited the conversion process so that workers using it didn’t accidentally entomb themselves in stone if a vial broke. Still, straight to the face, it would expand more than enough to kill a man.

The man sputtered, drawing his hands back to wipe off the quickly hardening goop.

Oliver tried to restrain the large man’s arms, but his strength was no match for Lord Morrow.

Still, with the other man distracted, there was nothing to keep Oliver from going for his wand, which he did, breaking off large chunks of hardening stone from his fingers so that he could grasp it.

With it in his hand again, he stood tall, looking down at the panicking man in front of him, who had barely avoided suffocation by liquid stone. Lord Morrow was no fool, and even with both eyes caked over and coughing gritty mud out of mouth, he knew he’d lost the advantage.

“Wait, wait!” he yelled, even as he contorted himself, trying to reach the rope still tying his legs together. It was no use. His head and torso were encased in the hardened goop and stuck to the floor.

Oliver shot him. The wand, despite their struggle, was still set to a stunning spell.

Lord Morrow collapsed.

Coolly, Oliver adjusted his battle wand’s settings, stepping a little closer so that he could aim properly with his trembling hand. “If there is no strength to be gained from hope, I will pull resolution from despair,” he whispered, paraphrasing a half-remembered quote from a bedside story his sister had told him as a child.

The next spell sliced right through Lord Morrow’s neck, separating his head from his body and leaving a gouge in the hardened liquid stone encasing him.

Blood gushed out, rapidly at first in a pulsing flood, and then quickly slowing.

It pooled over to Oliver’s shoes, coating their sides and bottoms.

Oliver stepped back, letting his huge, foxlike smile recede in favor of a grimace of distaste. “You taint everything you touch,” he murmured. “What a waste.”

Finally, he was able to look around. The ward was still in place over the open doorway, and the men who had been firing spells at it, trying to break their way through to help him, had fallen still. One of them had placed an augur in the doorway, and it was spinning into the empty air, digging into the ward. Oliver sighed. “I should have just had them do that in the first place,” he murmured. It might have left a few holes in the wall, but that would have been much less hassle in the long run than dealing with Lord Morrow.

While he waited for the ward to fall, Oliver turned to the rest of the room, stepping over Lord Morrow’s body and the pool of blood, which was steaming in the cold air. Absently, he cracked off the caked stone from his clothes and skin.

Shelves filled with boxes sat against the walls, with a few tables in the middle of the room. There were three hinged iron doors set into the ground beneath the tables, hidden but not invisible. Oliver inspected them first. He might not survive any more surprises in a single night.

The hatches were locked, and when he used his battle wand to break the locks and pull them open, he discovered that the ward around the room blocked them, too. But it didn’t block his sight into the tunnels that extended down beneath. Having a basement in Gilbratha was rare, because the water table was high, and magic was required to keep a subterranean room dry.

These tunnels would have been expensive, but all the more valuable because they were so unexpected. He would be sure to let his people know to search any other of the Morrows’ prior properties for similar additions.

After closing the hatches, he moved to place some of the boxes on the shelves over them. It would slow down anyone trying to come through into the room from below. He never actually got that far, because he almost dropped the first box he picked up in surprise.

It was full of beast cores. Hundreds of beast cores, ranging in size and color. Enough to power all of a thaumaturge’s spells for the rest of their very long life.

He put that box down and moved to the next. It was the same.

A few minutes of frantic investigation showed that about a fourth of all the goods in the room were beast cores. Even without the recent price hikes caused by the Crown’s import restrictions, the room held the equivalent of a hundred thirty thousand gold, just based on a quick estimate. And most of them were labeled with the same incomprehensible shipping address, a string of letters and numbers. Oliver couldn’t decipher it, but he didn’t need to. He already knew who the Morrows were working with.

The University was secretly stocking up on an exorbitant amount of beast cores, in addition to other restricted, powerful components that would have otherwise been taxed as well as tracked.

But why?

He looked around again, then picked up one of the beast cores. He’d heard that thaumaturges could somehow sense the power of a beast core roiling beneath the surface, but it just seemed like a pretty rock to him. He moved it around, peering into its colored, crystalline depths. “The beast cores, and the book. They’re preparing,” he breathed.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-78-a-sacrifice-of-light/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Typo Hunting Team signup: www.azaleaellis.com/join-the-typo-hunting-team/

Chapter 78 - A Sacrifice of Light

Sebastien

Month 1, Day 18, Monday 5:00 a.m.

Sebastien got back to the University before the sun rose. Most of the students were asleep, but a good number were still up, likely because of the widespread fighting in the city below. She slipped past any students she crossed paths with, avoiding notice with a combination of patience and the occasional distraction. She wished again that she had some way to activate her divination-diverting ward on command.

She’d washed the worst of the grime off herself at the Silk Door, taking a couple of extra minutes to turn her hair back to the blue-black of the Raven Queen before she transformed, but leaving behind Siobhan’s body didn’t get rid of the fatigue. She felt tired in all the ways. Mentally, physically, emotionally.

A quick check showed that Tanya was still inside her room when Sebastien returned.

Mumbling at Damien when he questioned her, she took a shower and managed to get a couple of hours of rest before the school day started. The wit-sharpening potion had worn off, and she felt slightly detached from the world, as if an ephemeral blanket were wrapped around her, muffling her senses and delaying her reactions.

She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Oliver or Katerin. If not for the fact that the fighting had eventually stopped, with a group of Stag enforcers arriving to take away what had become dozens of Morrow prisoners, she wouldn’t have known the outcome. She was still ignorant of the details, but she presumed if the Morrows had won, her night would have ended very differently.

Damien proved his worth by supplying her with delightful, sublime, life-saving coffee, brewed strong enough to melt a spoon and already imbued with wakefulness magic.

She almost cried out of gratitude.

There was a lot of distracted discussion about the night before, with rumors of varying credibility already circulating. Most agreed that several of the most influential gangs in the Mires had gotten into a battle, with chaos and collateral damage ensuing.

The fighting was over and the fires had been put out before morning, but now the coppers were dealing with looting. There had been a call for volunteer healers from the University. Some of the students in that career track would be able to get practice working on the poor, who couldn’t complain if their healer’s skills were sub-par because they weren’t paying anyway.

At breakfast, Tanya was visibly alarmed to hear all the gossip, but other than asking the other students for details, she didn’t do anything suspicious. She didn’t talk to Munchworth or any of the other professors. There were no other signs that anyone had contacted her or that she was reaching out, either.

Sebastien assumed Tanya was biding her time, and was a little impressed with the girl’s dedication to maintaining her cover. It could be hard to maintain procedure even when you thought you were safe and unwatched, especially when something like this happened.

Still, Tanya would have to do something soon. And when she did, they would be watching.

Newton, however, pulled Sebastien and Damien aside at breakfast to let them know that he was leaving to check on his family, who lived near one of the areas where there had been fighting the night before. “Tanya said she wanted to come with me, but I convinced her that at least one of the student liaisons for our group needed to stay behind. Other students might need our support, after all.”

Damien and Sebastien shared a quick glance. ‘This is horrible timing. But there’s no way I can refuse to let him leave. And even if I tried, I couldn’t force him to stay.’

“Go. We’ll keep an eye on things here. Let me know if you need anything. I might be able to help.”

After Newton left, Damien said, “We’ll have to take turns watching Tanya throughout the day. There’s no way we can monitor her during classes, but we might be able to keep an eye on her between them in case she tries to talk to anyone suspicious or slip away.”

They set up a schedule to do that while seeming as normal and unsuspicious as possible. One of them would slip away at least once during every class to use the compass divination spell on the bone disk and make sure Tanya didn’t cut out in the middle of a class. It was the best they could do with the resources at hand.

Sebastien stopped by the Administration center in the library before classes, and among the crowd of students doing the same, inquired if there were any letters for her. As she’d hoped, there was a note from Oliver, dropped off early that morning by a runner. The name on the outside of the letter indicated it was from Fortner’s, the high-class bespoke clothing shop he frequented, but she knew it was really him.

Sebastien went into a bathroom stall to open the letter. The outer page was an actual advertisement from Fortner’s, but inside that was a small square of paper. In a hurried scrawl, it read, “My niece’s violin recital went fairly well. She managed to win first place, though it was a close battle between her and the next girl. She made a fumble in the first movement, and her rival was unexpectedly well-prepared with a powerful piece of their own. Still, she prevailed. She has blisters that might take some time to heal, and I expect some snide words from those who aren’t so happy at her success, but she’s on track for the all-city competition, and I expect her to move forward from this even stronger.”

Sebastien read it twice to make sure she hadn’t missed anything within the cryptic message, then turned it over and drew a spark-shooting spell array on the back. She burned the entire thing to ashes in a couple of seconds, crumbled the ashes between her fingers, and dropped them into the magical chamber pot, which filtered them into its holding tank. Finally, she washed her hands, trying to make the pale blonde man in the mirror look less anxious.

In her first class of the day, Introduction to Modern Magics, Professor Burberry looked less pink-cheeked and bright-eyed than Sebastien had ever seen the older woman. “As most of you know by now, yesterday night the city was rocked by war between a handful of the criminal organizations that make their claim on the less affluent areas.”

This drew the scattered attention of the students like dangling a piece of bacon in front of a dog.

She continued, “The Crowns have mobilized the coppers to control any violence, looting, and property damage. The Order of the Radiant Maiden and the Stewards of Intention are both temporarily taking in those who have been injured or lost their homes to fire or spellwork. We’ve sent some of our own higher-level students with healing expertise to help as they can. If any of you have family affected by this, you can get a pass to leave for the rest of the day in the Administration office. Above all, however, I would like to stress that the Crowns have this incident firmly in hand, and we at the University stand behind them. There will be increased patrols to ensure the safety of the citizens in these tumultuous times and relief efforts to help those who are affected get through the aftermath, and those responsible will be arrested. The worst is over. Please don’t worry about it. Remember, our students are here to learn.”

Several of the students left, presumably to get passes from the Administration office, and Burberry gave her lecture without further allowance for distraction.

‘I wonder if Oliver realized it would get this big. The Crowns will have to make at least a token response. They have to be seen doing something. And maybe they’ll even make a real attempt, if the spectacle of this embarrassed them enough. The coppers didn’t particularly care about the Verdant Stag, at least not before the Raven Queen came along. But now…’

She didn’t know enough to truly speculate, but she was apprehensive. ‘This cannot have been the optimal outcome.’

Sebastien fumbled through her classes for the first half of the day, for once unable to care that she was missing a chance to learn. She revived only long enough to keep tabs on Tanya. Luckily, a lot of the other students were similarly bleary in the aftermath of their mid-term celebrations followed by the pandemonium of the night before, so she didn’t stand out.

A nap during the lunch period, while Damien kept an eye on Tanya, and yet another cup of coffee helped refresh Sebastien for Practical Casting.

Which was fortuitous, because Professor Lacer conducted an impromptu assessment of their progress in the last exercise he’d assigned—using three different methods to turn sand into a rock.

He had them come up in groups. With a beast core in his hand, he crossed his arms, leaned against his desk, and watched them perform the sand-to-stone transformation using transmutation, duplicative transmogrification, and true transmogrification. The pen on the desk behind him scribbled notes. Rarely, he commented, giving a student with particularly poor performance scathing admonitions, or someone with an impressive showing a few words of praise and tips to further improve.

Sebastien didn’t perform as well as she would have liked.

Her transmutation was passable. She used heat and pressure to form a very small pebble at first, which she added to bit by bit.

“Your understanding of the process is still not complete enough, and that is creating inefficiency,” Professor Lacer said, frowning. “You could do this at least twice as quickly with more thorough study and some practice.”

Sebastien wanted to melt into the floor, but she straightened her shoulders and nodded. Her duplicative transmogrification was faster, the sand taking on the characteristics of the dragon scale they’d been given.

Professor Lacer plucked the ball of textured rock off the table in front of her. With a slight narrowing of his eyes and a faint ripple of magic in the air, it crumbled in his hand. He dumped the dirt back in front of her. “Barely passable,” he said. “Too brittle, more like glass than dragon scale. You lost at least thirty percent of the durability during the process of duplication. Next time, take your time before casting and get a better grasp on the dragon scale, both in your feeling of ownership and your attention to its details. Weigh it in your hand. Taste it if necessary.”

Sebastien noted his advice, but lamented her own lack of preparation. Obviously, Professor Lacer was hinting that she was not on the right track, and might not satisfactorily grasp the auxiliary exercises he’d assigned her and Damien by the end of term. She took her time with the final variation, true transmogrification, trying to make her Will as clear and forceful as possible.

Once again, Professor Lacer shattered the resulting rock with a spell. This time, he frowned but said nothing.

Sebastien suddenly realized that this was actually worse than being offered correction and advice. ‘It shouldn’t have shattered so easily, right? A real dragon scale wouldn’t have.’ She went back to her seat, trying to figure out where exactly the spell had gone wrong. While others went up to the front to be assessed by Professor Lacer, she practiced the transmogrification, over and over, forming the ball of idea-infused rock and then returning it to sand.

When the assessments were finished, Professor Lacer introduced the third main exercise of the term.

He was even more crisp than usual, seeming irritated enough that none of the students dared to let out a peep or hint at any distraction that might draw his attention and ire.

“The mid-terms are over. Congratulations to some of you. Grades and rankings will be posted by the end of the week in the Great Hall. We will not wait for them to move on. There is little enough time to beat some basic competence into your heads as it is. This time, we will be using something new as the Sacrifice.”

‘I’m falling behind,’ Sebastien acknowledged with a sinking feeling. ‘I have already fallen behind.’

Professor Lacer had given her five exercises to work on privately. As they progressed through the in-class exercises, it was clear that the bonus ones were meant to augment these. She was still working on the air compression exercise, and had planned to start the next one—changing the color and shape of a candle flame—in a week or two. If she hadn’t been distracted with everything else, like keeping track of Tanya, developing the sleep-proxy spell, and all the time she spent working for the Verdant Stag, maybe she would have had time to keep up.

Professor Lacer walked to one of the empty student desks in the front row, his Conduit in his hand. “Many thaumaturges become set in their ways of thinking. They are stuck within the patterns of thought they have worn in their own minds, like a carriage wheel becoming stuck in a rut. This presents itself in various ways, but there are many such barriers between the average sorcerer and a free-caster. Magic does not have limits. Humans have limits that we impose upon magic. One such obstacle that we create for ourselves is the type of energy source we use. It is accepted that most any type of matter can be used in basic transmutation spells—living, nonliving, from solids to gasses, in any particular cellular structure. Thaumaturges accept that they can turn mud into a brick, or maybe even into a diamond, with enough power. But when asked about where that power comes from, you get the same handful of answers every time. Too many thaumaturges never cast with any energy source besides fire or a beast core. You need to practice thinking in other ways while your minds are still malleable.”



On the desk in front of Lacer, the spherical area marked by one of the component Circles carved into the surface disappeared.

Sebastien looked closer, her interest piqued. ‘No, not disappeared. It’s not invisible—that is a bubble of shadow. He is intercepting all the light passing through the Circle’s boundaries.’

“There is nothing in magic that restricts the source of energy. For some reason, humans find using heat more instinctive than, say, a lightning bolt. Some theories suggest that is because it is easy to associate the fire, which consumes its carbon-based fuel in exchange for heat and light, with our consumption of the fire in exchange for a magical effect. Yet, it is considered an advanced application to use the energy inherent in a slice of bread to power a spell, despite the fact that human bodies use that same type of energy to power our own continued existence. Most would find it much easier to access that power by setting the piece of bread on fire.”

He looked down to the little dome of darkness atop the table. “We will be practicing with light as an energy source. A simple transmutation spell, with light energy as the input as well as the output. Some of you may find this easier than others.” He met Sebastien’s eyes for a brief moment. “The least limited among you may have already cast spells like this.”

Sebastien thought of the amulet that gave her this form, pressed even now to her chest underneath her clothes. ‘Maybe it uses some kind of esoteric power?’ She had wondered before, many times, how it worked. The transformation magic had not degraded, nor gotten any slower, nor left her with any pain or weariness when it activated.

She caught herself lifting her hand to rub it through her shirt and consciously refrained. No artifact had unlimited power. When they were created, they were charged with a certain number of spells, which would either contain their own power source—this was more common—or pull from some external power source, which she knew was possible but had never seen in action. She had only learned the vague theory of it from her grandfather.

Distracted for once from Professor Lacer’s lecture by her thoughts, Sebastien’s eyes narrowed. The artifact was also special in that it could trigger with even a minor application of her Will. ‘How does it even recognize Will? To do so, the effects of Will have to be somehow quantifiable in the first place, which is something we haven’t managed to do even up until now—but the amulet does it, and would hypothetically be very old. Perhaps it uses transmogrification for this instead of transmutation. After all, some animals seem to be sensitive to magic being cast around them, and even humans feel a kind of hindbrain “awareness” around powerful thaumaturges in the middle of casting. That could be more than the senses subconsciously picking up on subtle energy spillover from spell inefficiency.’

In any case, this was not an issue that she could afford to be complacent about. Things went wrong when she got complacent. And she had been using the amulet rather a lot lately. If it ran out of charges, she would have absolutely no way to fill it again. ‘Maybe the book it came in contains instructions on how to cast the spell. That would make sense.’

Professor Lacer pulled out a small carving from his pocket, placing it in the second component Circle on the desk and drawing her attention back from her thoughts. “There are varying difficulty levels for this exercise.”

A spot within the central Circle of the desk brightened, then resolved into a replica of the carving. It expanded to be easily viewed by the whole class: a crude carving of a little boy with his dog at his feet. At this size, with only the Sacrificed light from the much smaller component Circle, the image was vaguely thin, like someone could poke a hole in it with their finger. “The easiest method is to replicate the image of a spell component…” The image turned, but it was flat, and the back was nothing more than an exact mirror image of the front. “Two-dimensionally. The next level of difficulty is maintaining a three-dimensional visual illusion.”

This time, when the image flipped around, it wasn’t flat, but instead showed the side and back of the boy and his dog.

He picked up the carving and tucked it back in his pocket. “After that, you may attempt to remove the source material entirely. You may start again with the two-dimensional…” The image of light resolved into silhouettes of darkness upon a light background, again the boy and his dog, but in a slightly different pose, one Professor Lacer had created himself.

“But those who wish to achieve true mastery should introduce a real challenge.” The silhouettes began to move, the dog wagging its tail and the boy reaching down to scratch behind its ears.

Sebastien grinned. ‘It’s not so different from the kinds of shadow-plays I’ve seen in the market.’

Except, under Professor Lacer’s sudden frown of concentration, the moving silhouettes gained realistic, rich color and shape. A background appeared around them, a field of green grass with a single tree in the distance, with a wide blue sky above. It seemed to gain substance, losing that semblance of thin illusion. The spell Circle was like a window into another place.

Sebastien was close enough to see individual blades of grass, and when the wind blew within the dome atop the desk, she thought for a second that she felt it on her skin.

The boy and his dog were real, not a crude wooden carving, and when a shadow passed over them from above, they reacted with surprise and fear.

They ran. The boy kept looking up and back over his shoulder, until he missed a gopher hole in the ground and went into a tumbling fall. When a dragon slammed down in front of them, the illusory ground trembled.

The dog posted up in front of the fallen boy, its hackles raised and its teeth bared as it barked viciously and soundlessly at the much larger dragon.

The boy scrambled to his feet and began to back away.

With a deep breath, the dragon gathered its magic, releasing it in a stream of fire that washed over the dog, vaporizing its fur and incinerating it where it stood.

The boy broke and ran.

The dragon hopped forward and happily snapped up the dog-shaped meat snack, then swayed after the boy until it moved out of the viewing window Professor Lacer had created.

The students stared at the scorched ground for a few seconds before Professor Lacer released the light-transmuting spell. When he did, it was like he’d broken some sort of bewitchment hex over them, and a few people suddenly started breathing again or let out nervous laughs.

“Anyone who manages a passable version of a three-dimensional image from imagination will get contribution points. Movement is not necessary, and will be beyond most, if not all of you. Do not let that discourage you from trying, however.”

As he walked back to his desk, he said, “Homework is, as always, at least three fully-fleshed spell arrays that you could use to create these effects if you were not in Practical Casting and forced to use a minimalist array. Three glyphs are allowed, two is recommended, and anyone still casting with three by the time we move on to the next exercise should be aware that their laziness is unacceptable and will be the main obstacle between them and true progress. Start your attempts now, with a focus on consuming all the light available so that you may repurpose it.”

He settled back into his desk chair and began to look through a stack of papers, ostensibly intent to ignore them for what remained of the class period.

Sebastien had indeed cast with light before. She had done so during her disastrous entrance examination. But then, she’d also used heat to augment the spell, and when all was said and done, she’d probably come close to giving herself Will-strain. But much more often, she had done so through her shadow-familiar spell, which she had been casting since she was a child. The Sacrifice of light was why her shadow grew so unnaturally, opaquely dark, and it provided the extra power that her warm breath through the Circle of her hands lacked.

She took a moment to write out the symbol and two glyphs, trying to settle the perspective of pulling on light for power in her mind. ‘Plants do it. Why not me?’

She started out with the simplest of exercises, trying to replicate the image of a single copper coin.

She looked up and toward the back of the class, where Nunchkin was working on a three-dimensional light construct. She couldn’t see the spell array on his desk, but would have bet that he had already advanced to using only two glyphs. Sebastien straightened and turned her focus back to the small Sacrifice Circle where she’d drawn the glyph for “light”. ‘I’ll start with a two-dimensional static image. I can focus on restructuring the light once I’ve mastered drawing upon it. This shouldn’t be so hard. It’s light to light, not like I’m trying to use the light to power a movement spell. I’ve cast the shadow-familiar spell enough times that this should be easy.’

It was not easy. Using only two glyphs, without the thrice-repeated chant of the esoteric shadow-familiar spell, the magic seemed to be deliberately trying to slip out of her grasp, as if the light were water trickling through her cupped hands.

By the end of class, she at least had the Sacrifice consuming enough light that she couldn’t see anything inside it, a little dome of black being repurposed into an undefined blob of light hanging in the middle of the larger inner Circle.

She could have made it easier by adding the third glyph, but refused to give in to the temptation. ‘I want to be a free-caster. If this is hard enough to make me give up, I should save my money for something with a better return on investment than University tuition, because I will never achieve true greatness.’

Nunchkin’s Sacrifice Circle was just as dark as hers, but he had already begun to form a blurry three-dimensional image of what seemed to be a silver crown, rather than a vague blob.

Sebastien’s Will was already fatigued as she exited the Citadel for the day, surrounded by milling students, and made her way to the library.

Tanya was still in class for another hour, and if she maintained her regular schedule, should be joining Newton at the library directly afterward.

Damien waited outside to keep an eye on her in case she broke her routine, but if she came to the library as expected, he wouldn’t follow her inside. Despite volunteering for this duty, he complained bitterly about sitting by himself on a cold bench, to Sebastien’s complete lack of sympathy.

Remembering her earlier inspiration about the transformation amulet, she searched the shelves for information on historical feats of artificery. ‘There has to be a clue, somewhere. Maybe I have simply been searching in the wrong place.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-79-connections/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

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Chapter 79 - Connections

Sebastien

Month 1, Day 18, Monday 4:15 p.m.

Sebastien found a book by an author who loved alliteration a little too much. If she wasn’t specifically searching for that topic, she might have passed over Ancient Achievements, Accomplishments, and Attainments in Artificery due to the ridiculousness of the title alone.

Reading through its contents, however, she was glad she hadn’t.

Normally, artifacts were charged with a finite number of spells, each spell fully formed and contained within the spell array until a set trigger released it into the world. Myrddin had been the first to develop artifacts that could gather their own power for a spell. Supposedly. Myrddin had a lot of fantastical feats incorrectly attributed to his name that had either been done by others, or had no actual historical corroboration. There were more stories about Myrddin than there were about all the other famous thaumaturges combined.

According to the book, he had developed several versions of these self-powered artifacts, some of which were now lost, and which she was pretty sure from the lack of citations or evidence that the author had at least partially come up with himself, based entirely on his own speculation about how such magic would work.

The spell arrays of the simplest self-charging artifacts contained the parameters to gather and transform energy as part of their activation and release process. Her grandfather had owned an ever-cold ice box that kept itself charged through the very heat it removed from the space inside. Her warding medallion worked in a similar way, pulling heat from its surroundings to power any one of several different protective spells. Self-powered artifacts couldn’t cast truly endless spells, as eventually the spell array would break down, and quicker with heavy use, but they were still widely coveted.

Sebastien hadn’t spent much time mulling over this idea before, but she was now realizing that it sounded rather dangerous if done incorrectly, or if damage to an artifact caused it to malfunction. The caster might end up freezing themselves to death as their battle wand gathered up energy to shoot a fireball at the enemy. It would require the artificer to be able to quantify the energy and its transformation process well enough to code that into the spell, from the beginning of the process to the end, while including safety precautions and limits. Sebastien wasn’t an artificer, but it seemed rather difficult.

The second way, which Sebastien had never seen in practice, allowed an artifact to access a distant energy source, like a heat-gathering spell array, through a sympathetic connection. ‘How far away does that work? What happens to everything in between when the energy starts flowing from the source to the artifact? Wouldn’t houses, trees, and random people be fried to a crisp, or electrocuted, or… Actually, it sounds like a really great way to cause mass destruction. ’ The book didn’t give details about how, exactly, this process worked, but perhaps there was a reason she’d never seen it implemented.

The third method, which had been lost to time if it ever existed at all, had the artifact accessing external power through a receptacle. For instance, a beast core that would slot into a Sacrifice Circle in one of the artifact’s sub-arrays—an ammunition cartridge, basically. ‘At least that method seems like it would be reasonably safe.’

The final postulated method was for the artifact to open up one or more tiny planar portals and siphon pure elemental energy in both the quantity and quality necessary for the spell.

Out of all the methods, this one seemed the most impracticable to Sebastien. She couldn’t even imagine how one would go about doing that. Creating self-charging artifacts was a Grandmaster-level feat, which was why they were so rare. Creating stable planar portals was on a similar level of difficulty, and notoriously dangerous.

While those were interesting thought experiments, it was a footnote at the bottom of the page that made her freeze, leaving her wide-eyed and momentarily breathless. ‘Myrddin was rumored to have developed artifacts that could be triggered with Will alone.’ The claim wasn’t substantiated, and the author considered it to be one of many false rumors, since no one had ever found such an artifact, and the original source of the rumors was unclear. ‘But that’s how the amulet works. I have physical proof that it’s possible.’ A fumbling search through the book’s index for keywords didn’t come up with any other historical artificers who were likely to have done such a thing. A search through a more modern list of advancements still did not turn up that particular ability.

‘Did Myrddin make my amulet? Write that book?’ It was a ridiculous question, improbable to the point of being impossible. But someone had made it, and if it was true, it suddenly made sense why the University would have been so desperate to recover the book. If her speculations held any weight, the book could be worth more than its enormous value to collectors and historians.

Sebastien thought back to Professor Gnorrish’s class some weeks before. If a sorcerer could truly understand a process, down to its very molecules, well enough to reproduce it given only a piece of chalk, they could cast spells that replicated the process. Triggering an artifact with Will alone might signify an understanding of Will greater than anyone alive in the world today. It was the kind of knowledge that many would be willing to kill for.

But not all the pieces of this puzzle fit seamlessly together. ‘If the book and the amulet really are relics that could be reasonably connected to Myrddin, why hasn’t the University shouted their success from the heavens? Surely their expedition recovered more than the one book. Even if they had no intention to sell any of the relics, the prestige benefits alone would seem irresistible.’ Perhaps they were waiting until they had retrieved her stolen book, or had some other reason to refrain from crowing about it like a rooster at dawn.

‘Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with Myrddin after all. Maybe they have no idea what’s written within, any more than I do. But if they really believe the Raven Queen stole one of Myrddin’s journals…’

She stared at the yellowed pages of the reference book, unseeing. ‘They’ll never stop.’ She smacked her cheeks until they stung, bringing her mind out of its spiraling thoughts. She didn’t have proof, just speculation. Acting as if she knew what was going on when she really didn’t could lead her to making catastrophically bad decisions. And even if it were true, it didn’t actually change her current situation.

Ancient Achievements, Accomplishments, and Attainments in Artificery didn’t have much more of value, but it did lead her to a discovery of the existence of an artifact meant to evaluate the energy stored in other artifacts—without having to take the other artifact apart. It didn’t detect magic directly, but worked by cooling down the artifact and then measuring any extraneous sources of heat. Most artifacts slowly leaked some of the energy from their captured spells, and in an extremely cold, controlled environment, this was measurable.

Such an artifact would be able to tell her how many of the small spell Circles within her commandeered battle wand were still charged—without the need to take it to an artificer and answer unwanted questions. It might even tell her something about the amulet.

Lost in thought, Sebastien jerked upright when someone pulled out the chair next to her. Her eyes were stinging, and she realized she’d somehow forgotten to keep blinking. ‘I’m tired.’

Newton sat down beside her. His hair was windblown, his clothes were wrinkled and smudged with ash on his arms and legs, and the dark circles under his eyes stood out against his pale face. A smattering of blonde stubble grew from his chin. “I’m glad you’re here. I didn’t get a chance to give you my report yesterday. And something happened.”

Sebastien straightened. “With Tanya?” She pulled out her pocket watch to check the time. To her horror, her research fugue had extended through Tanya’s fourth class of the day and twenty minutes more besides.

Newton glanced toward the Administration offices, where Tanya was waiting impatiently at the end of a long line of students.

Sebastien let out a slow breath of relief.

“Yes. I just got back, and she pulled me aside to talk. She wanted to check on me and ask about my family, but she was also asking for more information on what happened. She seemed agitated when I told her the Morrows had been ousted from their former territory. She specifically asked about”—he lowered his voice—“the Raven Queen. She seemed surprised when I told her I hadn’t heard any credible rumors about the Raven Queen being involved, but she still wanted the details.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I really don’t know much. I was focused on my family, and the fighting was so widespread. But I heard the Raven Queen flew above the battle in a black mist that was invisible against the night sky.”

Sebastien rolled her eyes. “If the mist was invisible, how could anyone have seen it to tell stories about it?”

Newton nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, pretty ridiculous, but, umm, Tanya seemed interested, almost like she thought it could be true. I also told her I heard the Raven Queen attacked a whole squad of the Morrows and took their bodies with her when she disappeared. And I heard someone prayed to her for protection and was able to escape through the darkness without notice, a veil of invisibility safeguarding them until they reached safety.”

Sebastien refrained from rubbing her throbbing temples. ‘This is getting ridiculous.’ “Most people don’t actually believe those stories, though, right? It’s just ridiculous rumors?”

“Of course they don’t. But no one knows exactly what she can do, so it’s hard for anyone who tells crazy stories to be judged absolutely as a liar. Anyway, that’s not exactly what I wanted to talk about. My family’s home was caught in one of the fires.”

“Are they okay?”

“Shaken. Frightened for their future. A couple light burns on my mother. She ran back into the house to save some of our things. A magician with this water-spring artifact pulled by a carriage put out the fire before our whole house could burn down, but…it’s not livable, and it will be a big job to repair, especially at this time of year. The fire, the smoke, plus the force of the water, and then sitting there drenched… A lot of our things are damaged.”

‘That’s the artifact I bought at the secret meeting. Or one just like it.’

“The worst of it is that the smoke and being out in the cold all night trying to get to safety took a toll on my father’s lungs. But everyone is alive, and none of them were seriously injured. Except…well, it means there’s no chance I’ll be able to stay on at the University next term. And I mentioned that to Tanya. She…”

Newton glanced up again to peek at Tanya in the line, ensuring she still was paying no attention to them, and lowered his voice again. “She swore me to secrecy and said she knew something that might help me. A way to make money. She hinted that it was illegal, or at best, very questionably legal. That I would have to take a magically binding vow of secrecy. And that it might involve some danger to me. So, Sebastien, I really need you to answer some questions for me.”

“I’ll answer what I can,” she said.

“Working for you, I’ve been getting closer to her. She’s driven, smart, and capable. I know she considers me her friend. Reporting on her every move while knowing that she trusts me…it makes me wonder about myself sometimes. Where do I draw the line for what I’ll do to further my own goals? I used to pride myself on my integrity. But I also have to wonder if it’s all a facade on her part, too. So just tell me. Is she harming people? Why am I watching her? What exactly is she trying to get me involved in? Is she dangerous?” Newton stared at Sebastien intently.

“Relax,” she said. “Your body language is conspicuous.” She slid the book she’d been trying to read closer to him. “Pretend you’re explaining something to me.”

Newton did a passable job.

It could be dangerous to give Newton answers, but she worried that he might decide to quit helping if she didn’t.

Putting a slightly confused frown on her face, Sebastien said, “I don’t know all the details, and of what I do know, I can’t tell you everything. However,” she said quickly, forestalling the protest that was obviously on the tip of his tongue, “Tanya is involved with people who perform criminal acts that include violence against innocents. She has participated in these acts personally. There is corruption inside the University itself that goes beyond her. And there’s a reason she’s particularly interested in what happened last night.”

Newton swallowed several times, shifting in his seat like he wanted to get up and pace but was forcefully suppressing the urge. “But she was here last night? She didn’t have anything to do with the attacks…right?”

“She didn’t directly participate in them, no. But that’s likely only because she didn’t know they were going to happen. She’s been directly involved in at least two civilian deaths. That I know of. You’re keeping watch on her for a good reason, Newton.”

This didn’t seem to reassure him. “This is way too much. I’m just trying to get my Journeyman certification. I don’t want to be involved in…whatever this is!” He waved his hand vaguely.

Sebastien hesitated, but said, “You don’t have to be. You can stop if you want. But as long as you don’t get caught, you should be perfectly safe.”

Newton stared at the book for a moment, then forced a slow, calm breath that reminded Sebastien of the spell he’d taught her. “About this…meeting, or whatever it is she wants me to accompany her to. Do you think she suspects? Is she trying to lure me off campus so she can get rid of me?”

Sebastien suspected she already knew what Tanya had been hinting at. “Can you tell me more about what she wants you to do?”

Newton swallowed painfully, looking down at the book in front of him and pointing to a specific line to keep up the ruse of helping her. “She said she had an answer to my money problems, if I was willing to take a risk. She said there would probably be no direct danger, but that I would have to take a vow of secrecy. She said she’d pay me to carry a battle wand and watch her back, but that if I wanted to put some of my tutoring expertise to bear, I could make a lot more coin from the kind of information that only a University student has access to.”

That confirmed it. “There are plenty of thaumaturges in Gilbratha that aren’t officially licensed to practice, or who are interested in magics that aren’t officially sanctioned. If I’m guessing correctly, she wants you to accompany her to one of their meetings. They’ll pay for things like spell arrays, restricted components, or other magical equipment. Some of the people are probably just there to avoid the Crown’s magic tax, but others could be dangerous. However, I’ve heard there’s a well-enforced restriction on violence at the meetings, so unless Tanya expects to start a fight, I’m not sure why she’d want backup. It could just be that she’s worried about navigating through the city alone after all the violence. The streets might not be totally safe. Or it could be that she plans to make some extra stops along the way.”

“Should I agree to go with her? I don’t want to get involved in anything…well, criminal. I don’t want to hurt people.”

Sebastien turned through a few pages of the book while considering how to respond. “You’ll have to decide that on your own. You’re definitely not obligated to agree. It is a risk, but the possibility of profit is real, and we might be able to use whatever information you gather.”

“But I’ll be sworn to secrecy. I won’t be able to tell you anything, really.”

She hesitated, then said, “I have a contact that attends the meeting. You can discuss events with other members, and they can tell me.” Really, it would just be a meeting set up with her in her female body. They would have to be very careful.

“If you already have someone there, why would you need me?”

“Because Tanya might talk to you about the details. My contact is a stranger to her. Still, if something goes wrong…they might be able to act as backup for you. Just something to consider. Also, we would pay you extra for the risk. But you’ll still have your assignment with me even if you decide not to do this.” She hesitated again, but decided it was only fair to be candid. “Also, there might be other options to get the money you need. I do have some contacts, and we might be able to work something out. This isn’t your only chance in the world.”

She wished she’d had someone to say the same thing to her when everything was going wrong. It was only by luck that Oliver and Katerin weren’t worse, and that her deal with them was something she could stomach. She might have made much worse bargains out of desperation, were she in Newton’s spot. “Though, to be clear, what I could connect you with probably wouldn’t be as lucrative as the danger of accompanying her.”

Newton’s shoulders visibly loosened. He laughed. “Wow. If you would have told me I’d be having this conversation at the beginning of the term…” He shook his head ruefully. “I’m just a bookish commoner who’s too stubborn to admit I don’t belong here. I wasn’t meant for these things.”

Tanya paid the Administration worker for the paper bird messenger spell and moved to the stacks of special paper that she would write her letter on. She glanced over at them, and Sebastien gave her what she hoped was an unsuspicious smile.

Newton didn’t even notice.

“We sometimes find ourselves in extraordinary situations,” Sebastien said. “And then we discover that there are extraordinary depths of resourcefulness within us.”

“How did you get involved in all this? Contacts in secret meetings, digging up corruption in the University, rubbing shoulders with the children of Crown families?”

Sebastien let out a breathy laugh. “I, too, never expected to find myself having this conversation. Truly. But life has a way of surprising you. Especially when you demand more out of it. The world twists in strange ways to keep up with you.”

“I’m interested in these other opportunities to make some coin, but I think I’ll do it. Go with her, I mean. As long as there’s going to be backup there.”

“In that case, let me be clear that I intend no one at that meeting any harm. You are not associated with Gilbrathan coppers or official law enforcement of any kind. You have no plans to discuss relevant information about the meeting to any non-members. You are there for your own mercenary benefit only.”

He blinked at her.

“They will ask you,” she said. “This way, you can answer honestly.”

He gave her a slow, confused nod, but there wasn’t time for more questions, because Tanya had finished sending her letter and was heading their way.

‘She was most likely contacting Munchworth, or someone else here at the University. Even if the paper birds have a delivery beacon with one of the Morrows, I doubt she’d be so reckless as to contact them directly right now.’

Tanya dropped into the seat across from Sebastien with an irritated huff.

“Thanks, Newton,” Sebastien said, pulling the textbook back over to herself. “That makes sense.”

“No problem.” He looked up to Tanya, and Sebastien was impressed with his composure, despite what he had just learned about the other girl. “Is everything okay?”

Tanya waved a dismissive hand. “Well, you know.”

Sebastien wasn’t sure they did know.

That must have shown on her face, because Tanya brought up a knee, tilting her chair away from the table to rock back and forth on its hind legs, and said, “I needed to ask one of the professors for instruction, but with everything going on I can’t get hold of them. Had to send a bird.”

“Is it worth it?” Sebastien asked. “The contribution points for being a student liaison?”

Tanya snorted. “Of course not. They make me do all kinds of shit that I don’t want to do.” She was grinding her teeth. She stopped talking to rub her jaw, then said, “There’s a reason why you don’t see a lot of high-class students working as student liaisons. We don’t do this for the contribution points. I mean, the points don’t hurt, but the whole point of getting a position like this is to put it on your resume once you’re looking for employment. I don’t want to be poor and insignificant my entire life. I have ambitions, Siverling.”

“I can understand that,” Sebastien said.

Tanya peered at her assessingly for a few moments, rocking back and forth. “Maybe you can,” she said finally. “How did you manage to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Build all those connections. Even if you make a mistake, or make enemies, you have a safety net. You won’t be expelled before reaching Master, and you’ll easily be able to get a position as a research assistant to attempt Grandmastery. You’re pretty much assured a job after graduation, etcetera. A lot of people will see who you surround yourself with and hesitate to make an enemy of you.”

‘What?’

Sebastien tilted her head to the side and said aloud, “What?”

Tanya scoffed. “Come on, Siverling. Damien Westbay, Anastasia Gervin, and Professor Lacer? I mean, I’ve heard you insult Alec Gervin to his face…and you’re still here.”

Sebastien blinked. “Well…I suppose I could get a low-level position in the coppers through nepotism, and Damien Westbay probably has enough influence to keep me out of minor trouble, but he’s definitely not going to pay my way through the University, and he can’t keep me from being expelled. To be candid, Professor Lacer vouched for me to get me through the entrance exam. I offended some of the other professors and almost didn’t make it. But that means my future here depends on him, and he’s already threatened me with expulsion multiple times.”

Tanya seemed to find this both surprising and amusing. When she was finished laughing, she wiped the wetness away from her eyes. “But he’s not actually going to do it, right? If he was, he wouldn’t have taken you as his apprentice.”

Sebastien again found herself saying, “What?”

“I mean, that was a pretty big decision on his part. You know how he is. He’s got a personality like a barbed razor blade. But he’s not going to actually expel you unless you do something really outrageous or start failing all your classes or something.”

Beside Sebastien, Newton nodded. “That’s probably true.”

Sebastien shook her head rapidly. “Oh, no. Okay, I think you have a misconception. I’m not Professor Lacer’s apprentice. He just used his veto power over the entrance council to get me admitted.”

Both Tanya and Newton stared at her silently, their expressions a mix of confusion and incredulity.

Sebastien looked back and forth between them. “Really. And I became friends with Damien…by accident.”

Tanya started laughing again and almost fell over backward when her chair overbalanced.

One of the librarians sent a death glare toward the three of them, pointing to the clearly visible sign requesting a quiet, peaceful atmosphere.

Tanya gripped the table and slumped over it, her face pressed into her elbow to muffle the disruptive volume of her mirth.

Sebastien looked to Newton for support.

He shook his head. “You definitely are Professor Lacer’s apprentice. It was on the announcement board for special accomplishments.”

She remained silent.

“When the exams ranking results came out? It’s displayed to everyone.”

Sebastien hadn’t returned to the University to see her ranking after taking the exam. She’d known it would be poor. She’d barely been admitted, after all. She found herself mirroring Newton’s shaking head. “That’s impossible.”

“What’s impossible?” Damien asked. He’d waited some time to follow after Tanya into the library, and was now staring down at her shaking shoulders with suspicion. “Is she crying?”

With a few shuddering gasps, Tanya regained control of herself. “Oh, I needed that,” she muttered.

“We’re discussing apprenticeships. Do you remember who Professor Lacer’s apprentice is?” Newton asked Damien, his own lips twitching in suppressed amusement.

Damien moved to pull out the chair next to Tanya. “What? It’s Sebastien. Is this some kind of joke?”

Sebastien’s eyes lost focus. She stared into the middle distance. It all made a horrible, embarrassing amount of sense. “But you and Ana are doing the extra exercises, too?” she asked feebly.

“Well, I wasn’t willing to fall behind some rude commoner,” Damien said with a rueful smile and a shrug. “And Ana’s a good sport. I badgered Professor Lacer into allowing it, since it’s all individual work and doesn’t require any extra time on his part.”

“If you want proof, you can go look at the special accomplishments display for this term,” Tanya said, waving to a series of framed papers on the wall near the Administration center.

Sebastien got up and walked over to them in a daze. She found her name next to Thaddeus Lacer’s easily enough. “Oh,” was all she could say.

‘I’m apprenticed to Thaddeus Lacer. I am the apprentice of the youngest Master of free-casting in a century. And somehow I had no idea.’

A note from AzaleaEllis

Author Note 12/9/21: For the audio lovers out there, A Conjuring of Ravens, narrated by the amazing Gabrielle de Cuir, is complete and up for preorder on Audible and Amazon. Grab your copy now!

Patrons at the Grandmaster tier or above can get a free Audible download code for the book as part of their Patreon rewards.

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-80-nerves-wracked/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 80 - Nerves Wracked

Sebastien

Month 1, Day 18, Monday 6:00 p.m.

Damien found Sebastien’s ignorance hilarious. He kept falling into random giggling fits whenever he thought of it, despite her increasingly ferocious scowl.

Tanya was similarly amused, leaving Newton the only one with a bit of sympathy for Sebastien.

Sebastien almost wanted to stop by Professor Lacer’s office and ask him about it, but the thought of his reaction was even more mortifying.

Besides, Damien admitted that when they spoke, Professor Lacer had called her his provisional apprentice. That barely meant anything, really. He may have made her his apprentice to get her past the entrance exams, but it seemed likely that he would negate that once it was no longer necessary, or if she disappointed him.

She did her best to put it out of her mind. Nothing had changed, only her understanding of the situation. There was nothing she needed to do with this information.

With both Newton and Damien around to watch Tanya, Sebastien didn’t really need to be there.

She decided to take advantage of the temporarily reduced workload from her classes—those besides Practical Casting, whose professors had some measure of compassion for their students, unlike Professor Lacer—and work on some of the things she’d been neglecting.

She went to the supply closet that held the Henrik-Thompson testing artifact, hoping that it would have other useful items, like the artifact-scanning device she’d just learned about, but was disappointed.

She hesitated to ask one of the Artificery professors, but when she firmed up her resolve and found the man from her entrance examination to make the request, he was happy enough to give access to the one in his classroom.

Looking around at all the complicated gadgets and tools for creating the miniature spell arrays, Sebastien regretted that Professor Lacer had restricted her to only taking six classes per term. ‘No, what are you thinking?’ she asked herself, looking at a spool of gold wire. ‘You cannot afford either the time or the funds to be a competent artificer. There will be time to learn more about this craft later, once you have made something of yourself.’

The professor sat at his desk across the room, wearing a set of complicated, multi-lensed goggles and leaning over something delicate and shiny.

Sebastien arranged herself so her back was blocking his view, just in case. She was pretty sure owning a battle wand required a license. She examined the artifact before putting it into the larger metal dome, which was already wafting out cold air from its open mouth. The wand was bigger than the name implied. Only the most expensive wands with the most exquisite construction were the size of twigs. Most were more like batons, tapered cylinders that easily reached an inch thick at their base, and in an emergency might even be used to beat someone about the head.

This one wasn’t fancy, and gave off no hint of precious metal or multiple different types of spells within. You pointed and pulled the embedded node on the side, and it fired a stunning spell. Of which the scanning artifact told her it had three remaining, based on the three rungs of miniature Circles within that were radiating minute amounts of heat.

Glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder to ensure the professor was still paying her no attention, she slipped off the amulet and scanned it, next.

According to the scan, it had no charges remaining. ‘Either I just happen to have run out, or whatever charges it holds are too efficient to be tracked.’ Not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved at the continued mystery, she hid the amulet away again, thanked the professor, and forced herself to take a nap. Then, she practiced Professor Lacer’s exercises, focusing on all the different aspects of her Will while creating a ball of compressed air, until she felt herself start to grow more at ease with the spell.

The next couple of days were uneventful. Other than the suspicious letter Tanya had sent via spelled paper bird, she was keeping to her normal routine as a student aide. But Sebastien knew the woman would slip up eventually. Probably soon, considering what had just happened. Neither Munchworth nor the Morrows seemed the type to lay low for any length of time.

Oliver sent Sebastien another coded note requesting she come by over the weekend to brew healing concoctions, as apparently the Stags were having trouble supplying their increased territory. She had already been planning on it, of course, but noted that she should buy any useful healing supplies at the next secret meeting, which she hoped would be soon. The Verdant Stag would need more than she could supply on her own, and Oliver would reimburse her, with her fee on top of that.

After classes on Wednesday, while Ana, Damien, and Sebastien were studying in the library, Ana sat scribbling furiously in the pink notebook she often wrote in, a harsh frown on her face.

Sebastien would have thought nothing of it, but Ana was the type to smile with almost creepy pleasantness even while enraged. She’d done so only that morning when one of the male students “accidentally” rubbed against her derriere. Right before shoving his food tray into him, splashing hot oatmeal over his chest and face with a sweet, “Oops!”

Meaning something that could cause Ana to frown so unpleasantly had to be serious.

“What’s wrong?” Damien asked.

“I need to go check on my little sister,” Ana replied, already preparing to leave.

“I’ll come with you,” Damien said immediately, already standing. He hesitated, looking to Sebastien as if realizing that he might have misspoken.

With Damien off campus, it would leave only Sebastien and Newton to watch over Tanya, but Sebastien nodded quickly anyway. Some things were more important. Damien had been Ana’s friend far longer than he’d been Sebastien’s ally.

She even offered, “Do you need any help?” but the pair was already hurrying away too quickly to hear her.

Checking to make sure Newton was still with Tanya, Sebastien moved to the supervised practice rooms, where she spent a couple of hours trying to catch up on Professor Lacer’s exercises.

Ana and Damien were still gone when she returned to the dorms, and Sebastien guessed they might be staying the night at the Gervin estate. ‘I hope everything is alright.’ Damien did have the bracelet she’d given him, so if anything went truly wrong, he could at least let her know, even if there was nothing she could do about it.

Sebastien cast her dreamless sleep spell and lay down. She was hoping to get a few hours of sleep in, and then wake to work on some homework in the middle of the night while a little more refreshed. Just as she was falling asleep, however, the alarm ward they’d placed on Tanya’s door went off.

Sebastien pulled the rattling, cold stone from under her pillow and stared at it in frustrated disbelief. It was as if Tanya had somehow divined the worst possible moment to get up to something suspicious. ‘I’m tired. I don’t want to follow Tanya out into the freezing elements and hide in the dark listening to her from afar…’

Sebastien considered letting Tanya go unsupervised in favor of sleep, trying to convince herself that the other woman wasn’t necessarily up to anything nefarious. Instead, Sebastien leapt to her feet in sudden anxiety.

Without Damien, she couldn’t actually listen to Tanya from afar. Sebastien had spent a little time researching sound-enhancing spells, but what she’d found worked by amplifying received sound through the casting surface. These spells all created a slight but obvious echo that could easily give her away to Tanya and Munchworth if they were paying attention, even if she managed to hide or suppress any light given off by the casting or Sacrifice flame.

Her mind raced as she tried to come up with a solution. She could attempt to recreate Damien’s spell by hashing something together, but there was very little chance she would get it just right, and new magic was wild. Dangerous. She was trying to learn from her mistakes, not recklessly undertake more of them. That would be a last resort.

‘Why didn’t I place more importance on finding a way to cast a divination spell focused on myself, at will? If I had the ward going at full strength, I might even be able to sneak up on them in the dark.’ Even if she could have cast a divination on herself while simultaneously avoiding its grasp, though, the spillover light from her lantern and the probable glow of the spell array would give her away. The divination-diverting ward didn’t make her invisible or impossible to notice, after all. If she could cast with light as a power source, she could have minimized her chance of being noticed, but she was nowhere near ready to do that.

‘You’re rambling. Focus. I need real solutions,’ she snapped at herself mentally, wrenching on her boots and jacket.

She checked her pocket watch. Less than half a minute had passed since Tanya left her room. ‘I can’t listen in from a distance, and I can’t sneak up on her. But I’m pretty sure I know who she’s meeting, and where. I don’t need to sneak up on them if I’m already there. Lying in wait. Hidden.’

It was a gamble. Maybe Tanya wasn’t going to meet Munchworth at the Menagerie. She could be doing anything, going anywhere…

Moving as fast as she ever had in her life, Sebastien used her little slate table and the bone disk to track Tanya’s direction. She was headed north, which meant she probably wasn’t leaving University grounds. She would swing west soon, if the Menagerie was her goal.

Already moving to the dormitory doors, Sebastien snuffed her lamp, stuffed it into her pocket with the bone disk, and wrapped her dark scarf around her head to cover her pale face and hair. She didn’t want to stand out in the night like a beacon.

As soon as she was in the hallway, she ran. She burst through the opposite doors Tanya had exited through, sprinting around the Citadel to the east and onward to the Menagerie gates. She had to get there far enough ahead of Tanya that the other girl wouldn’t see her. Sebastien could only hope that Munchworth wasn’t already there and waiting.

At least this time there was no fresh snow to leave suspicious tracks in. It was trampled and dirty and the paths were covered in patches of invisible ice—which immediately sent Sebastien sprawling painfully.

Cursing silently, breathing too hard to spare any air for spouting obscenities, she climbed off her bruised knees and elbows and kept running.

The little bridge where Tanya and Munchworth met last time was empty. Sebastien slowed and glared around suspiciously, looking for any other forms hiding in the dark. Her breaths were seeping out through the gaps in her hastily-wrapped scarf, clouding puffy and white in the moonlight. Her lungs protested the shock of suddenly filtering such a great quantity of frigid air, and she coughed as stealthily as she could while searching around for a hiding spot.

Eventually, she decided the best hiding spot was actually under the bridge itself. There were a couple of large boulders near the bank that would help to conceal her form if she huddled into them.

It was a precarious descent. The rocks were slippery, and the edge of the little stream was iced over and concealed with piled snow. Sebastien cracked through the ice with a splash, but managed not to face-plant into the freezing water. “Titan’s balls!” she hissed. She crouched down in the darkness underneath the stone bridge against the lumpy side of the boulder and remained still, muffling her breaths with her scarf.

She wanted to cast the compass divination on Tanya again, or at least take out her pocket watch to estimate how long she would need to wait for the girl to arrive, but she resisted the urge. She was too likely to be noticed.

To her relief, though, she had been correct.

Tanya arrived first, clearly audible from the little bridge above as she stamped her feet and muttered vague threats toward “that pompous idiot.”

It took long enough for Munchworth to get there that even Sebastien was beginning to wonder if he’d stood Tanya up. Then when he did arrive, Sebastien worried suddenly that one of them would use a revealing spell of some sort to ensure their privacy, but he started speaking without hesitation. “What was so urgent that you could not send it in a message? I was under the impression that you do not have much time to dawdle about tonight. Do you have something for me?”

Tanya seemed to hesitate, but then blurted, “This is a bad idea. I…I don’t feel comfortable doing this. I can go to the meeting, but—”

Munchworth cut her off. “You called me away from my bed just to whine? What exactly do you think your job is? Do you think you are in a position to make demands, or even suggestions?” His voice grew louder as he berated her. “You do not decide. We decide. You either perform satisfactorily, or you fail and you are useless.”

“I’m not incompetent,” Tanya said in a tightly controlled tone, “but I object to being treated like a disposable pawn in a reckless strategy that’s just as likely to backfire as bring about positive results. Aligning ourselves against the Verdant Stag and the Nightmare Pack, both of which have dealings with the Raven Queen, is a bad idea. I have already been warned once. I doubt she will spare my life a second time. I have reason to believe that a member of the Stags or the Nightmare Pack is also a member of the meetings. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It became obvious after the attack. Don’t you see the implications?”

“It is no surprise that there are criminals at these meetings. That is largely the point of them.”

“They know who I am!” she cried, barely keeping her voice low enough that it wouldn’t travel through the night. “They’ve heard my request for a meeting with the Raven Queen, and they probably passed it on to her, but she refused. They’ve been selling Conduits, I think from people they attacked or killed. They’re dangerous.”

‘She’s talking about me, but why would she assume I got the celerium through nefarious means?’

Tanya continued, “When I start asking the questions you sent me, they’re going to make connections. The Raven Queen has already shown she can move directly against the University without repercussion. She’s warned me in person. Do you want to be assassinated? Wasn’t that book she stole on its way to your office at the time? She knows where you work. She probably knows where you sleep. You are making an enemy who is out of your league, and you’re tossing me into their jaws like some kind of disposable, unshielded pawn.”

Munchworth scoffed angrily. “I am a professor of the Thaumaturgic University of Lenore. We are the most powerful magical institution on the continent. Even the Thirteen Crowns fear us. This upstart who calls herself the Raven Queen is nothing more than a petty thief and a dramatist, feeding the fear and ignorance of the population to bolster her reputation. She makes threats and pulls stunts because she is not powerful enough to face us directly. We will anger her? She has angered us! We will stand for this no longer, and if she knows what is good for her, she will hide away in the shadows, for the fist of our wrath will spare none!” He breathed hard for a few seconds. “The cowardice of your common blood is showing true, Canelo. Rid your mind of petty superstitions and represent the University with the mettle of a real sorcerer.”

Tanya’s heavy breaths were audible, and Sebastien could imagine her anger, but the woman didn’t reply aloud.

“You’re becoming an increasing hassle, Canelo. Remember, we wield both the carrot and the stick.” There was a pause, and Tanya must have responded nonverbally, because her harsh breaths remained while Munchworth’s heavier stride walked off the bridge and retreated toward the entrance.

Sebastien stayed still beneath the bridge, trying not to shiver or let her teeth chatter.

Tanya stood atop the bridge for a few minutes, then suddenly burst into cursing. She took a few deep breaths, muttering, “By all the greater hells,” in a desperately strained tone that sounded as if she might be about to burst into tears. After a few more minutes of hunkering in the cold, Sebastien heard her say, “Okay, okay,” in a calmer tone. “I do what I must. At least I won’t be entirely helpless, or alone.”

Tanya finally left, and after waiting to be sure she wouldn’t be observed, Sebastien followed her.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Next chapter on my website: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-81-the-siverling-line/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

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Chapter 81 - The Siverling Line

Damien

Month 1, Day 20, Wednesday 6:30 p.m.

When Ana reported trouble with her little sister Natalia, Damien immediately volunteered to go with her. He had some idea what the Gervin Family was like and what the young girl was facing without Ana around to shield her, just as Titus had shielded him. Already preparing to leave, Damien hesitated belatedly, looking to Sebastien. Without Damien, Sebastien would only have Newton as a backup to keep watch on Tanya.

Sebastien nodded easily, shooing him off with a flap of his hand.

As they strode determinedly away, Damien asked Ana, “What happened? Is Nat okay?”

Ana’s expression was carefully neutral, but a muscle pulsed in her jaw. “Natalia is unharmed. Physically, at least. She was frightened by the fighting last night. Cousin Robbie teased her that I had died, and then he locked her in a supply closet. She was stuck for several hours until one of the servants found her and let her out. Mother scolded her for having cried so hard she made herself ugly and dirty, and of course Robbie denied any wrongdoing. So, Nat got in trouble for lying.”

“I’ll give him a good thrashing,” Damien said, grinding his fist into his palm.

“She tried to,” Ana said, her voice growing rough. “Father saw. He was with Uncle Randolph, so I’m assuming he was embarrassed, and she was punished. Nat was a little too hysterical to explain everything coherently by this point in her message. I could barely read her scribbles past the ink blots and tear stains.”

“Robbie’s a grown man now. It’s shameful to be picking on a small girl like that.”

“I’m sure his father encourages him. Anything that could undermine the female heirs’ ability to lead this Family in Father’s eyes.” Ana’s hand fisted in the delicate fabric of her suit vest above her heart as if to squeeze the beating organ, leaving enraged creases in the material.

They took the tubes down and hailed the best-looking carriage waiting by the side of the street. Even with the carriage bouncing along with enough urgency to stress its cushioning spells, it took a tense half an hour to arrive at the Lilies. The Gervin Family’s estate was cut out of the far east side of the white cliffs. The mansion sat close enough to the base, near the waters of the Charybdis Gulf, that when it stormed, a spray of sea foam would hit the cliff’s edge.

They both remained silent, but Damien’s mind was active. Smoke from the smoldering remains of the fires had drifted over the water from the city, making his eyes sting as he looked out of the carriage’s small window slot. Usually, the smoke would have been blown away already, but the air was unusually—ominously—still.

Late Sunday night, Damien had watched from the edge of the white cliffs as the fires that preluded that smoke broke out. Even though he had understood he couldn’t help, he hadn’t been able to let the worry go, so instead of pretending to sleep while Sebastien was out who-knows-where, he’d bundled himself up and snuck away, looking down on the city as the violence Sebastien had predicted broke out.

It had been more than a “little skirmish.” Even from so far away, Damien had seen the flashes of magic, and the wind carried him faint sounds of explosions. He even imagined he heard the occasional scream.

Not long after, some of the University staff had come out to look. The beginnings of a fire lit up a portion of the Mires in orange, light diffusing through the smoke and setting everything glowing. He hadn’t bothered to try hiding from the staff, and they’d barely spared him a perfunctory admonishment to return inside, which he ignored.

“It won’t reach us here,” one of them said.

“Still, best to be prepared for the unexpected.”

Finally, a female guard insisted he return to bed. When Damien tried to protest, she said, “You’d best hurry up before I remember that it’s past curfew and give you a demerit.”

Damien had been almost ready to tell her he was the youngest Westbay and dare her to punish him, but instead he’d slumped in defeat. He was self-aware enough to know when his anxiety was making him foolish.

Sebastien would give him a horrible tongue-lashing if he heard Damien was drawing that kind of negative attention to them. After all, someone might wonder why Sebastien was missing from the dorms after curfew, too.

The only upside was that Tanya seemed to be oblivious. Her door hadn’t opened the entire night. Damien had wished desperately that he was advanced enough in the craft to do a general, exploratory divination on both Tanya and Sebastien. He wanted to check to see if Tanya was likely to do anything dangerous or suspicious, and make sure Sebastien was still okay. Unfortunately, his Divination class had barely progressed past basic deductive divinations like telling the suit of the next card in a deck.

Damien had dozed fitfully and woken when Sebastien finally arrived around five in the morning, before the sun had risen. He’d been agitated, ready to snap at Sebastien for any slight he could find, but he stopped when he got a good look at his recalcitrant friend.

Sebastien had seemed unharmed, but Damien noticed the clues he failed to hide. Sebastien’s eyes were bloodshot and his face even paler than normal. There was grime in the creases of his neck and what looked like traces of dried blood around his fingernails.

“What happened?” Damien asked, keeping his voice low to avoid waking any of their dorm-mates. “Are you injured?”

Sebastien dug into the trunk at the base of his bed for a change of clothes. “I’m not.”

“Then someone else was injured? Something happened. I can tell.”

Sebastien sighed. “Some civilians were caught up in the fighting. A young boy got his legs blown off.”

Damien had paled.

“I had to help him. He’ll live, but, for him, the worst is probably yet to come. I doubt his family can afford healing powerful enough to regrow his legs. I…don’t want to talk about it anymore, Damien.”

Damien kept his mouth shut as Sebastien went to the bathrooms and took a long shower. He’d wanted to ask what Sebastien had gone out to do in the first place, and what the fighting had been about. But he couldn’t. Damien felt useless. All he had done was keep an eye on Tanya.

Sebastien was beginning to warm to Damien, but still didn’t seem to like him very much. First impressions were valuable, and he had botched theirs. Professor Lacer had been right to reprimand him. It was foolish to make enemies so blindly, even when they seemed inconsequential. Now all he could do was slowly try to change Sebastien’s mind.

Sebastien had drawn his curtains closed and plopped onto his narrow bed with a sigh of exhaustion.

The other students began to stir soon after, and Damien had been quick to throw his most dangerous glare around when anyone made too much noise and threatened to prematurely disturb Sebastien’s rest.

Sebastien had slept for only a couple of hours.

Damien tried to convince him to go to the infirmary and get a pass to skip his classes, but Sebastien refused. In the end, all he would accept was an extra strong cup of coffee, which Damien imbued with a little magic to boost its effects. It was a trick his mother had taught Titus, and which Titus had passed down to him, despite the stigma of “kitchen magic.”

Damien was jarred from his thoughts as the carriage slowed to a stop at the manor gates. He paid the driver as Ana strode ahead. He knew he was walking into a similar situation now. He would be moral support at best, unable to actually do much, but he knew from experience that sometimes it helped to have someone just…be there. Ana had done the same for him more than a few times over the years.

At the front doors, Ana blew past the servant that tried to take her coat and scarf.

Damien smiled apologetically to the servant and agreed to the offer of tea and refreshments. “Send them up to the library in twenty minutes or so.”

Ana’s house was quite different from his own, filled with bright colors and fresh flowers even in the middle of winter. It was just the right temperature, and the air inside held not even a hint of smoke. Her mother took pride in things like that, redecorating frequently and inviting people over for parties and balls whenever she wanted to be particularly extravagant.

Damien didn’t want to thrust himself awkwardly between the two sisters, so he went to the library to wait for a few minutes. He browsed the books idly, his thoughts returning to the blood he’d seen caked around Sebastien’s fingernails. He couldn’t imagine exactly what it might be like to find a child missing their legs and on the edge of death, but he knew it must be horrible, and he knew that, were it him in that situation, the child would have died.

But Sebastien was special. It was obvious, in his sheer skill with magic, but there was more to him than met the eye. Even beyond the secrets that Damien knew.

His fingers trailed over the spine of a book, his eyes idly reading without comprehending. He paused, reading the title again. A Genealogy of Notable Figures of the Thirty-Second Century, B.C.E. The book itself was completely useless to him, but it sparked an idea and renewed the flames of curiosity that had never quite died down.

He looked around, noting the recurring theme among the other books. The Gervin library was full of records. A lot of genealogies, history, and plenty of not-so-subtle gossip about other people’s ancestors.

When the tea tray was brought up, he took it from the servant and made his way to Nat’s room. He knocked on the door, then opened it with a smile, keeping any anger or concern from his face. Nat needed to be cheered up, not reminded of what she already knew well enough. “I come bearing gifts for the lady Natalia, in the hopes that she might gift me a few minutes of her lovely company.”

Nat’s face was swollen and blotchy from tears, but she nodded happily enough.

Nat and Ana were both sitting on the canopied bed, so Damien sat the tea tray at the foot, kicked off his boots, and climbed in with them. There was plenty of space. He served the girls tea and scones with butter and jelly and made light conversation, telling stories from the University that had Natalia giggling until she fell over. She particularly loved stories about Sebastien, and Damien found he had more of them than he realized.

As she ate and drank, he foisted more snacks on her and embellished anecdotes of Sebastien’s obliviousness, grumpiness, and his secret soft-hearted core.

“What Family is he from?” Nat asked.

“He’s not one of the Crowns,” Ana said, running her fingers idly through her little sister’s hair.

“Really?” Nat looked down, frowning with disappointment.

“It’s not like that matters,” Damien said. “We might have the advantage of bloodlines and opportunity, but there’s plenty of skill among the lower classes. And plenty of garbage among our own,” he added darkly.

Nat shrunk into herself a little, like a turtle tucking its head, and Damien quickly changed the subject.

After the ordeal of her day, and now finally being filled with food and liquid, she started drooping into sleep soon afterward.

When she was down, Damien and Ana slipped out of the bed and walked to the balcony, carefully closing the door behind them.

“Is she okay?” he asked.

“It was an ordeal for her, but she’ll be fine. For now.” Ana clenched the balcony railing, staring out at the city. “This is why I didn’t want to leave her. She’s all by herself without me. She’s only eleven.”

“You managed when you were her age. She’s going to be okay. And she’s not alone. You’re not gone, you’re half an hour away, and you talk to her every day.”

Ana’s grip only tightened, and she rocked back and forth a bit.

Damien nudged her shoulder with his own. “Nat’s stronger than you think. Don’t underestimate her.”

Ana’s fingers tightened, but then she let out an almost inaudible sigh and released her grip. “You’re right. I just worry about something like this happening again. She was trapped in that closet for hours with no way to call for help. I think Cousin Robbie paid off some of the servants to purposely ‘not notice’ her screams. Our manor isn’t that big.”

Damien ran his fingers over the simple wooden bracelet Sebastien had given him, which was hidden beneath his shirt. “You should get her an emergency alarm artifact. Something that will let you know when she’s in danger, even if she can’t write to you.”

Ana brightened immediately. “Yes, that’s a great idea! I don’t know why I never considered it before. I suppose…you don’t normally assume a child needs an emergency alarm within the safety of their own home.”

Damien only hoped Nat never needed to use it for anything worse than being trapped in a closet.

“You can go back,” Ana said. “She’ll probably sleep for a couple of hours. I want to be here when she wakes so she isn’t frightened.”

“Actually…I was wondering if I might use the Family library?”

“Oh? Whatever for? We don’t have many relevant study texts at a University level, and there aren’t any of your cheap detective periodicals.”

Damien refrained from commenting on her slight. “I was hoping to look up a list of notable families. I’m curious about the Siverlings.”

Ana raised a knowing eyebrow. “Interested in Sebastien’s history?”

Damien rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, then realized he was mussing his hair and smoothed it again. He looked away. “I’m just curious. Gossip and genealogy and all that is your Family’s wheelhouse. I don’t want to pull up confidential information or anything, and that’s the only type of special information my Family would have access to. Sebastien never talks about his family, you notice?”

“I already looked into them.”

Damien’s head jerked around to look at her.

“Don’t be so surprised, Damien. Of course I would. I sleep next to Thaddeus Lacer’s mysterious new apprentice every night, and no one’s ever heard of him before.”

“What did you find?”

“It was difficult to find anything. At first I thought he was…” She paused, playing with the collar of her jacket. “Well, I thought he was a commoner from a family just wealthy enough to afford his tutors and admission. No one particularly special.”

Damien knew that even if Sebastien was a commoner, he would still be exceptional. “At first? You changed your mind,” he stated.

“Recent records about anyone with the name Siverling are impossible to find. At least without hiring an investigator, and I didn’t think that was warranted. But I found a more distant mention of the name. The Siverlings were a maternal offshoot line of the ruling Family of Lenore from before the Third Empire. Supposedly everyone in the line was executed by the Blood Emperor.”

Damien’s eyes widened. “Do you think it’s the same Siverlings?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? But it’s definitely a curious coincidence. Especially since he seems to have popped out of nowhere.”

Inheritance via a maternal line was often contested, and allowed only if there were no more direct descendants through a paternal line, but if it wasn’t a coincidence, and Sebastien really was descended from the king of Lenore before the Blood Empire… “What would that mean?”

“Probably not much. Maybe it would make him a more desirable match for some Crown Family daughter. With the right backers, he could make a claim to power…and probably face either open execution or a deniable assassination, depending on how much support he had.”

Damien could imagine it, a family living in secrecy for generations for fear that the Blood Emperor or the Crowns would take offense to their very existence and finish them off. “How likely is it to be true?”

“The king’s third daughter married into the Siverling family. Her husband was the king’s Court Sorcerer. She was pregnant when she died, and all the records say the child died with her. I did a little digging… She would have been at least eight months pregnant. With the right spells and a good nursemaid, eight months is old enough to survive outside the womb, if the child was delivered early or cut out of his mother’s stomach immediately after her death. But it’s extremely unlikely, although I’ll admit that it makes for a dramatic and intriguing story.”

“Unlikely maybe, but it is possible. And if we think so…maybe someone else does, too. Could someone have found him living in Vale, in obscurity, and convinced him to take up his true family name again? Perhaps funded his way through the University, connected him to Professor Lacer?”

“Possible, yes. It’s probably unconnected, though. He’s been staying with a man named Oliver Dryden, an exiled noble from Osham. The man seems to have very little personal ambition. He’s a philanthropist with a bleeding heart, according to my father, and wouldn’t have any reason to take advantage of Sebastien. I honestly wouldn’t consider the connection to those other Siverlings at all except…” Ana’s lips quirked up at the corners. “Well. Sebastien has something of a way about him. Blood runs true, you know.”

Damien remembered the first time he’d realized Sebastien was truly special. He’d made a joke about him being the second coming of Myrddin.

Damien wasn’t crazy. He didn’t think Sebastien was the literal incarnation of history’s most powerful thaumaturge. But if Sebastien held the bloodline of both the king and a man who would have been one of the most powerful sorcerers in the country, it made some sense how he could be naturally talented enough to draw Thaddeus Lacer’s eye.

“There is a simple solution to our curiosity,” Ana said.

“There is?”

“We could just ask Sebastien.”

Damien considered it for a second, but shook his head. “I don’t think we should. He can tell us if he wants to. That kind of thing…there are probably a lot of good reasons to keep it secret. He never talks about his family or his childhood, and I feel like maybe that’s deliberate.”

Ana hesitated, but nodded. “I agree.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed. “There’s something else. Do you know something?”

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Sebastien is our friend. I don’t want to gossip about him.”

“You love gossiping, you liar,” he said, daring her to refute it with a pointed look. “Besides, it’s just me. I’m not going to tell anyone else, and you know he’s my friend, too. If there’s something relevant, isn’t it best that both of us know so we can have his back?”

“It’s nothing you shouldn’t have noticed yourself. And I don’t want to speculate about what it means. Just…” She cleared her throat. “Okay. Sebastien is incredibly self-assured. To the point of arrogance. But that arrogance is universal. He doesn’t treat even the most obvious sponsored commoner any different than he treats you or me. And the way he studies, it’s obsessive. I thought at first he was just trying to live up to expectations or something, but sometimes it seems like he’s worried all this is going to be taken away from him, and he’s trying to cram as much knowledge as possible into his mind before the spell ends. And you’re right, he never tells stories about himself. It’s not just that he avoids talking about his family or his childhood. He’s never mentioned a pet, or his favorite food, or even what he wants to do after graduating. And mostly…he has nightmares, Damien.”

Damien nodded slowly, realizing everything she said was true. In fact, the only thing he knew about Sebastien’s family was from an offhand comment about how free-casting ran in his family, too. He, of course, knew that Sebastien’s dreams had something to do with the secrets he kept. Sebastien would have taken the same oath as Damien, while looking at the stars. He, too, wanted freedom and enlightenment, whatever that meant exactly. Sebastien had spoken about that boy with the missing legs a little too matter-of-factly.

But Damien had never given much thought to the fact that Sebastien had trouble sleeping. He knew Sebastien had nightmares, and probably insomnia too. It was just one of those things about Sebastien, like him being grumpy in the mornings, and how much he loved good coffee but never bought any of his own, and how he ignored the increasingly frequent flirtatious looks from the female students like he didn’t even notice them.

“Yes, he does…” Damien said encouragingly, waiting for Ana to continue.

“He has nightmares every night. That’s why he’s always practicing in the wee hours and seems exhausted in the morning. I think something bad happened to him. Something he doesn’t want to talk about. So even if he is one of those Siverlings, it doesn’t mean his life before this is anything he wants to remember. And maybe that’s why he studies like he does. Being here is a way out for him. And if it is…I don’t want to take that away from him by making him talk about it.”

The thought that something or someone had actually caused Sebastien’s nightmares had Damien’s heart beating a little too hard, his cheeks flushing even brighter against the cold. When Sebastien had said, “The world can be darker than you imagine,” there had been a shadow in his eyes, hidden thoughts swimming behind their placid surface. It seemed wrong that someone like Sebastien, who was strong and smart and who cared so much, could, in other circumstances, be the victim of something that scarred him internally so much that he couldn’t escape the memories even in sleep.

“Sebastien isn’t a victim.”

Damien only realized he’d said the last part aloud when Ana nodded. “Exactly,” she said. “It’s not how he thinks of himself, and not how he would want anyone else to think of him. So let’s not make him tell stories he would rather leave behind just for the pleasure of a being in on a secret. Whether his last name has any significance…well, it doesn’t really change who Sebastien is, right?”

She was right, of course. Damien told her so.

She laughed. “Damien, haven’t you learned by now? I’m always right.”

He smirked. “Except when you disagree with Sebastien.”

They laughed, and didn’t talk of it again.

A note from AzaleaEllis

Happy Holidays, my readers!

I’m running a Patreon Special Offer (extra Patreon rewards for a limited time) to accompany  the launch of the second book in A Practical Guide to Sorcery, A Binding of Blood! This offer is available for only three weeks, through January 13. If we hit milestones like 100/125/150 patrons, there will be extra rewards, like bonus chapters & more omake short stories.

Next chapter on my website https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts/chapter-82-things-go-wrong/

Table of Contents: https://www.azaleaellis.com/pgts-table-of-contents/

Chapter 82 - Things Go Wrong

A note from AzaleaEllis

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Newton

Month 1, Day 20, Wednesday 9:00 p.m.

Newton had considered turning Tanya down when she asked him to accompany her to a secret meeting of criminal thaumaturges. He had no desire to be involved in the dangerous game Sebastien and his Crown Family friend were playing with the University, and he dreaded anyone finding out his part in it. Accompanying Tanya with a battle wand seemed like the stupidest decision a normal person—someone who just wanted to get their Journeyman certification and move on—could make, a trap door that would dump him into this morass with no way to escape.

In the end, though, when Tanya knocked on his door shortly after curfew, the promise of a solution to his other problems was too tempting to pass up. He needed the coin. His family was depending on him.

Their entire household: his parents, his Grams, and even his sisters, had been saving since he was young to put him through the University. When they talked about their hopes and dreams, it always revolved around his future, and the knowledge that once he was established, he would help them as they once helped him. When he’d gone to check on them after the fighting and the fire, his Ma had broken down crying.

Not about the half-burnt house, or Pa’s failing lungs, or the loss of all the worldly belongings she hadn’t been able to carry in her arms, but because Newton would no longer be able to become a Journeyman. Two hundred gold a term—the minimum to take four classes—would be beyond their family’s means now. If he had to take more than one term off, he would have to pay the three hundred gold admission fee again, too.

Newton’s father had been fairly well-paid for a commoner, making about three hundred gold a year. That was much better than their neighbor Mr. Carlton, who worked unskilled labor wherever he could find it. With that, Mr. Carlton made about one hundred thirty gold a year, which was not enough to support a family on alone. This was why it was common for everyone from grandparents to children to live together, each contributing what they could to the family’s livelihood. Even doing that, some families still barely squeaked by when it came time to pay taxes.

An Apprentice-certified sorcerer could make four hundred eighty gold a year, if they found a good Master willing to let them work for their business. Legally, Apprentices weren’t able to sell magical items or services to others under their own banner.

Newton had the basic certification, but he hadn’t received any good work offers the term before. He hadn’t particularly been looking, because he had assumed he would be able to get his Journeyman certification at least, and maybe even the extra two terms for a specialized Journeyman. A good Apprentice-level position would be enough to support his family on, and maybe, in ten years or so, he could save enough to return to the University for further certifications. The best jobs in Gilbratha were almost always given to those who put on an impressive show in the end of term exhibitions. If he could just make it until then…

He sighed, shaking his head at his own foolishness. It wouldn’t do to be too greedy. Even if he needed to drop out right way, mid-term, he should still be able to find something that paid well enough to keep his family fed and housed. Sometimes a person needed to make sacrifices.

Newton had wanted to cry, too, when he saw the tears streaking his Ma’s soot-stained skin and the wrapped burns on her arms. He’d controlled himself because he knew that would only make her feel worse.

His family’s dreams for him weren’t rooted only in what they hoped to get back from him once he had power and riches. It might be easier if that were the case. No, they all wanted a better life for him than what they could hope for themselves. And they were willing to sacrifice for it.

The pressure to succeed became crushing at times.

So now he was walking through the dark streets with Tanya. The air had been clear up atop the white cliffs, but down in Gilbratha proper, thick fog had rolled in, giving the city an eerie, muffled quality.

Tanya had given him a battle wand charged with stunning spells—which was the most expensive item beside his Conduit that he’d ever held, and which was illegal for him to have. His hand stayed wrapped around it within his jacket pocket. His eyes felt gritty and sore with lack of sleep, and the muscles in his neck hurt because he kept clenching his jaw without realizing it. He’d been having to use the calming spell his Grams taught him to get even a semblance of rest over the last few days, but it wasn’t enough.

Tanya was wearing a mask, and they both wore hoods deep enough to keep their faces in shadow even when they passed the occasional streetlight, but he could tell from the way her head moved constantly that she was watching for danger, or perhaps pursuers.

When they reached their destination, a nondescript building with a slit in the door that slid open when she gave a special knock, he felt relieved for about half a second. She gave a strange, disturbing passphrase, and everything seemed to be going fine.

Then Tanya told the man behind the door that she’d brought a new prospective member.

He looked at Newton, then waved them in. He pointed them down the hallway, and they were met quickly by another masked man who looked at Tanya and said, “We prefer to be notified of new applicants at the prior meeting,” with censure in his tone.

Newton’s hand was sweaty around the battle wand. He carefully released his grip and removed his hand from his jacket pocket, wiping his palm on the side of his pant leg surreptitiously. Tanya had assured him that the meeting itself was regulated by the administrators, and thus safe enough, and Newton didn’t want to come off as a threat, especially if he wasn’t technically supposed to be here.

Tanya didn’t reply.

The man turned to Newton instead. “You will be interviewed by one of our prognos. If your answers are acceptable, you will be allowed to join the meeting.”

Newton nodded jerkily.

“At least you got here early,” the man muttered, opening a door to reveal a person sitting at a desk. A large spell array was drawn over the floor beneath them.

The person behind the desk turned their head toward Newton, and he almost jumped when he met the gaze of their single, bright eye. He shuddered, hoping the response wasn’t obvious.

The man tried to send Tanya off to the meeting room, but she refused to leave. “I’ll stay with him,” she insisted.

“You cannot,” the person at the desk said, her voice marking her as a woman. “The interview must be conducted without outside influence.”

Tanya hesitated like she wanted to argue, but finally stepped back and let the man close the door, shutting Newton in with the two masked strangers.

The man activated the spell, a ward against untruth, and Newton felt it take hold. It didn’t muffle his thoughts, exactly, but he still felt the urge to shake his head, like water was stuck in his ears.

The prognos woman jangled a pouch of bones while asking him a series of questions. She poured them onto the table after each question to read whatever truth she’d divined.

He answered truthfully, and was glad that Sebastien had the forethought to assure him that he wouldn’t be giving information to non-members, and that he wasn’t affiliated with anyone who wished the group harm. Newton was a little suspicious of Sebastien’s claim that he and Westbay, and thus Newton himself, weren’t affiliated with the coppers or law enforcement, but apparently not so suspicious that the prognos thought he was lying.

He exited the room about fifteen minutes later, now masked like everyone else, to find Tanya waiting in the hallway.

“Okay?” she asked.

“Okay,” he said, nodding.

She turned and walked back the way they’d come, and Newton followed, listening as she explained the meeting etiquette in a low voice. “Keep an ear open for any rumors about the Raven Queen,” she murmured to him as they entered the room where a large group was already waiting, many of the masked members talking amongst themselves.

Wearing a mask himself made Newton feel slightly better, but he remained on edge. How could he not, surrounded by potentially hostile strangers, in a group that would all get sent to Harrow Hill if the coppers found out about them?

Most of them were talking about the gang fighting that had swept through the city earlier that week.

“The shop my nephew works at had all the windows blown out,” one man said. “And then the looters made off with quite a bit of the inventory before the coppers got around to clearing the area.”

“Lost inventory and broken windows,” another replied with a sarcastic scoff. “Oh, the horror. The Stewards of Intention sanctuary near my house is full of the injured and newly homeless. Some of us thaumaturges might ride out this instability none the worse, but many who were struggling are going to slide into poverty with no way to recover. Crime is up because desperation is up, and that will not go away any time soon.”

A woman looked between the two men. “I heard the Stags offer jobs to people in their territory, and loans to get healing, and their enforcers handle crimes the coppers don’t care about. Perhaps recovery will be quicker than you think.”

The first man crossed his arms over his chest. “Who do you think started all this? It was the Stags that attacked the Morrows! They’re not interested in helping, they just want territory and power, just like all the other thugs!”

Another man stepped up behind the woman. “Well, I heard the Stags and Nightmare Pack attacked with non-lethal measures. They weren’t even trying to kill any of the Morrows, just capture them. It was the Morrows who caused the real damage. They didn’t care about killing bystanders or starting fires, which shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who actually lived in their territory. I’ve lost count of the number of young women who come to my clinic to deal with the consequences when a Morrow boy thinks he can take what he wants because of a red M on his shirt.” His sneer of disgust was audible in his voice.

A squat woman who’d been standing a few feet away spun to face the arguing group. “And who told you this story about these saints taking over Morrow territory? Live capture? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Sounds to me more like someone is savvy to the benefit of a positive public opinion. A lot easier to hold a territory where everyone’s so naive they’re actually happy to have you initiate war in the streets so you can take over running the brothels and the drugs and the fighting rings. ‘Meet the new boss! Nothing like the old boss. No, really, we promise!’”

Yet another person joined in. “I’ve actually lived in Verdant Stag territory. Whatever you want to say about them attacking and causing all this, I can tell you first hand that they do what they say. I’m not claiming the leader is some bleeding-heart altruist, but they really do have enforcers to protect the people. There’s an alarm system set up on the edge of every street corner. If there’s a crime, or a fire, or you’ve been trampled by a horse, you can pull the Verdant Stag flag and a team will come to help you. And they have a little apothecary set up in the back of their headquarters with the cheapest prices I’ve ever seen. They can’t be making a profit off that.”

A woman shrugged languidly. “Some gang is always going to be in charge. New boss, old boss, who cares? Someone smart will make good use of the opportunities offered by this volatile situation and get themselves into an advantageous position with the Verdant Stag or the Nightmare Pack. And if the Verdant Stags are soft-hearted enough to make that easy? Even better.”

That sparked a new round of argument, but the arbiter banged his wooden gavel until the room quieted, then instructed everyone to sit down and get to business.

If not for the violence the Verdant Stag caused, Newton might have actually been favorably disposed toward them. His father had been to see one of their healers when they couldn’t afford one in Morrow territory, and he had no love for the Morrows. His family had only avoided paying “protection” to them due to his Grams and her not-so-secret skills as a hedge witch. That, and her stubborn recklessness in standing up to the gang.

One of them had tried to beat and mug his mother on her way home from the market once, and would have succeeded if not for a sharp-eyed, kind copper who ended up escorting her all the way home.

His father had taken one look at her black eye and flipped over the kitchen table in rage.

The Morrows went after anyone affluent enough to afford their predation, and plenty of those who couldn’t, too. Sometimes, they demanded worse than a bit of coin.

Newton had to dismiss these thoughts as the meeting began. Masked thaumaturges were offering items and information in exchange for coin or trade in other items and information. Newton pushed back his nervousness and spoke up, offering casting information on the handful of spells he had prepared.

Tanya didn’t do the same, perhaps because she wasn’t allowed by her secret employers.

Newton only took the four basic classes, so he had no specialized spellcasting formulas to provide, and only a couple of the members were interested in what he was offering. Newton had to look to Tanya for a small nod to be sure he was haggling for a fair price, and in the end got an agreement for twelve gold crowns in exchange for a specialized mending spell and an extremely simple heat-containing artifact.

He settled back into his chair with relief as others offered their own goods and services, mentally calculating his earnings. Adding what Sebastien and Tanya would both pay him for being here, he could make fifteen gold in a single night. His job as a student liaison for the University made him a little over forty gold every term, and the accompanying contribution points were worth another five or six. If he could do this just a few more times, along with the money he made from tutoring, he would be able to pay for his own tuition. If he brought spells the other members would be more interested in, it could be even sooner. He had earned enough money in a single night to keep his family fed for an entire month.

It was suddenly viscerally easy to understand why people fell into a life of crime.

Newton jerked himself from his dazed state, returning his attention to the meeting. The fatigue and frequent rushes of anxiety were getting to him. He pushed himself to be more attentive so that he could gauge what magic information would be most valuable. Eventually, the meeting transitioned from offers to requests.

When a hooded woman spoke, requesting healing components, artifacts, or concoctions, Tanya stiffened beside him, her head swiveling to stare at the speaker.

Newton followed her gaze, wondering what was so interesting about the other woman. She was tall, and she sat with supremely confident posture, but her request seemed fairly innocuous. When she turned her head, Newton caught a glimpse of what might have been a red feather woven into her hair, which seemed a rather over-the-top fashion accessory, but she was masked like all the others. Perhaps Tanya had recognized her voice, or there was some important clue in the supplies she was requesting that Newton hadn’t picked up on.

Tanya settled back into her seat, shaking her head silently when Newton sent her a questioning look, but she seemed even more on edge than she had been, and he found his hand creeping back to the pocket with the borrowed battle wand tucked inside. Not that he wanted to use it. The thought made him shudder. No, it just felt reassuring to know there was an incapacitating spell within his grasp.

Tanya only grew tenser, until, with an exhalation that sounded as if she’d been holding it in since the meeting had started, she loudly requested any information on where the Morrows were being held and what was being done to them.

Newton’s gaze slid toward her with an inexorable sinking feeling. It shouldn’t have surprised him, really. Obviously, he’d known she was involved in illegal doings, and Sebastien had warned him that those doings included the deaths of innocents. But he hadn’t known she was working with the Morrows. And she must be, for what other reason would she be asking about this? Did that mean someone higher up at the University was also working with the Morrows? But for what?

“I assume they have been executed,” one member offered.

“No,” a man said, shaking his head. “They’re imprisoned. I know a little about the conditions the Stags are offering for their release. Three gold for a private conversation about it,” he offered.

A woman scoffed. “Please. That is not proprietary information. The Stags have been more than open about it with anyone who asks. The Morrows are being held somewhere secret, and they say Lord Stag is going to hold court and put them on trial for their crimes against the citizens. And I heard a rumor that they’ll be either ransomed or executed, depending on the severity of their crimes and their status within the gang.”

The man crossed his arms and sent the woman a glare that was obvious even through his mask.

Tanya looked around, her fists clenched at her sides, mostly hidden under the folds of her cloak. “Does anyone have information on where they are being held? Or what”—she cleared her throat—“what the security measures are?”

A few members shared glances.

Newton’s palms were sweaty again. What reason could anyone have for asking that unless they were interested in breaking the Morrows free? That just seemed like it would cause even more mayhem, destruction, and bloodshed.

After a few seconds of hesitation, a man raised his hand. “I’ve an idea where they are. No proof, but I’m not sure what else they could be doing in that location. I’ve noted a few interesting comings and goings, and someone was hired to ward the place beforehand. The information’ll cost you.”

“Gold? Beast cores?” Tanya offered.

The man rubbed his hands together in his lap with as much awkwardness as avarice. “Umm, gold. Two hundred crowns. It’s fine if you supplement with beast cores if you don’t have enough.”

Tanya’s scowl was audible in her voice, but, to Newton’s surprise, she didn’t haggle. “Fine.”

It was no wonder that she’d wanted backup, carrying that much wealth on her person. Bank cheques could be used for large transactions if you were wealthy enough to afford an account. His family had opened one to save the funds for his tuition in a place that couldn’t be stolen by one of their neighbors, but obviously you wouldn’t want to pay for anything illegal with a cheque, in case the paper trail led the coppers right to you.

The meeting moved on, but the hooded woman who’d asked for healing supplies earlier stared at Tanya a little longer than the others.

When the meeting ended, Tanya mingled with the crowd, her back never turning to the woman, while Newton went into a small side room to exchange spell information for gold under the watchful eye of an administrator. When he was finished, Tanya completed her own transaction with the man, and then whispered in the ear of an administrator, who nodded at her.

She and Newton were sent off soon afterward. Tanya walked quickly, turning corners at random for a few minutes before she calmed. “Keep an eye out for tails,” she murmured to him.

“Tails? You mean, someone following us?” He at least had the foresight not to look around wildly. Even if he had, the fog was becoming so thick that he doubted he’d be able to see anyone more than a hundred meters away. He was a little nearsighted, and glasses were expensive.

She nodded. “I know what they’re doing, and they know I know. That woman at the meeting, the one that asked for the healing supplies? She works for the Verdant Stag, I think. Her purchases are a little too coincidental.”

“And you work for the Morrows,” Newton muttered.

“Not exactly.” Tanya hesitated, but shook her head. “Affiliated, at best. But the Verdant Stag isn’t going to care about technicalities. The Raven Queen definitely won’t.”

“The Raven Queen?” Newton asked through numb lips. “Is that why you wanted me to listen for people talking about her?”

“I don’t know what her agenda is, but I think maybe the Morrows offended her. I mean, why else would the Nightmare Pack suddenly team up with the Stags to go after the Morrows? I’ve heard rumors about her kind. Relentlessly vengeful.”

Something about the way Tanya was walking, the lines of stress around her eyes, and how her fingers clenched around her own wand suddenly gave Newton a sense of foreboding. Tanya was frightened, maybe even terrified, and it was quickly rubbing off on him. “Her kind? Do you mean a blood sorcerer, or is the Raven Queen some other species?” He couldn’t help but look around for something hiding in the shadows.

“Both, maybe. Who knows which of the rumors are true. If the Morrows were smart, they would have found a way to mollify…” She trailed off, and just when Newton was about to ask, “What?” she grabbed his hand and yanked him down a narrow side street.

She slipped into a bouncing half-run, and he followed, looking behind them. “A tail?” he asked.

“Maybe. Someone in a hood, might have been from the meeting. Following a couple blocks back.”

They slowed to a walk again once they reached the next street, but doubled back the way they’d come rather than continuing toward the University. Tanya was still on edge by the time they’d made a loop, but as far as Newton could tell, no one was following them.

Tanya stopped them in the shadow of a spacious four-way intersection where one of the streetlamps had gone out, either having run out of power or had its light crystal stolen. They waited for a few minutes, suspiciously watching every hint of movement within the thick blanket of fog choking the streets.

Newton hoped Tanya was being excessively paranoid, but the thought that maybe she wasn’t left him a little light-headed. He slid a hand under his mask to rub his dry, tired eyes. If they were being tailed, wouldn’t it be better to keep moving? He removed his hand and adjusted his mask so he could see out of the eye holes again, and almost screamed when Tanya darted a hand out and grabbed his arm in a bruising grip.

With one finger held up over her mask where her lips would be, she leaned out from the corner and pointed to a hooded figure one block to the west of them. Tanya pulled back, shielding them behind the corner of the building they stood next to. “They realized we noticed them,” she said, her voice almost inaudible. “They’re following along beside us, one street over.”

“Are you sure it’s the same person?”

“Only one way to find out. Get your wand ready.”

“What?”

“We’ll close in like a pincer. You from the north, me from the south. I can question them, find out what they know, what they want from me. I’m not going to let myself end up like the others.”

“No, Tanya,” Newton said, his horror a distant thing that made his lips slow. “Shouldn’t we run?”

“That will never work. We have to flip the tables. Don’t worry, it’s two against one.” She raised her hand to forestall further argument. “And I’ll call for reinforcements. Not all the Morrows were captured, and at least some of them will still be active and responsive to a flare beacon. This is what I hired you for, Newton. You’re already here, and you can’t back out now. We’ll take that person by surprise.”

And so, pulling the battle wand out of his pocket for the first time since she’d given it to him, Newton made sure the handle was twisted into the active position and would send out a stunning spell with a simple tug of his forefinger on the embedded lever.

Trying to keep himself from hyperventilating, he jogged north and prepared to cut around and block their possible pursuer. He wondered where exactly his life had gone wrong to lead him to this.

A note from AzaleaEllis

I'm going to be increasing the number of Patreon chapters by one--permanently. Tomorrow, patrons will get the last chapter of the book.

This is a bit of a thank-you bonus to patrons for all the support along the way. I appreciate you. :)

In other news, I'm going through and updating BOB chapters with the edited versions as I have time. After edits, the book increased by about 4,000 words, which is approximately the content of one chapter, spread out. Some details have changed and some things have been expanded or hinted at more clearly, but nothing critical to the plot. You may still want to go back and read from the beginning. (As of right now, I've reupl